


Ash, Dust, and Bones

by cowboymeat, lambmeat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymeat/pseuds/cowboymeat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambmeat/pseuds/lambmeat
Summary: There are a lot of things that Reyes would go back and change if he only had the mind to. Bad situations, worse mistakes, and worst-- loose emotions. Claiming to be heartless, Gabriel's heart is heavier than anyone could believe it to be.There are a lot of things that McCree would go back and do if he only had the heart to. Should have listened in church more, should have counted his bullets twice that day, should have listened to his father's voice in the back of his head when his commander started to pick at his seams and pluck his loose threads.Feeling like a chew toy, gnawed on and mangled over years of abuse, McCree doesn't trust the hands trying to stitch him back together. Enamored with the speckled face with warm eyes, Gabriel doesn't trust his own hands to keep Jesse in one piece while he tries to mend his tears.
Relationships: (PAST) Gabriel Reyes/Jack Morrison, Jesse McCree/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Storm Brewing

**Author's Note:**

> The story initially started off as a roleplay before becoming a full-fledged story, so the first chapter may seem repetitive or awkward at times where we went back and forth in turns. 
> 
> It is our first collaboration! We've written together for years, but have never put our experience into something legit. Updates should be every week to every other week as both of us are working full-time and will be attending college come fall.
> 
> Kudos/comments keep us motivated! Tell us what caught your eye, what you liked that we've done with the characters, any ideas you may have, or anything that comes to mind-- it means a lot! 
> 
> Our carrds will tell you a little about the authors + give you links to our social media!  
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)  
> [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boots clacking and spurs rattling like an angry snake against the rickety saloon floor, glass crunches underfoot as Jesse crosses the space. Marching over to Reyes, he thrusts the aged film into his commander’s hand.
> 
> “They’re still here,” he bites, hackles raised. “I’ll be a fucking fool if they aren’t. They’re waiting for me. Like I told you before, over and over.”
> 
> His sentences are stunted, getting harsher and more clipped as he leans closer to Gabriel with each punctuation. Their noses are practically touching, Jesse’s bunched in a snarl, before the cowboy simply huffs.

Metal thundering underfoot, reverberating against the earth’s atmosphere, the clouds buffet the windows. The weather was moderate and nothing that poses a problem for the military-grade transport ships. Built for stealth, armored and advanced, but accommodating for long hauls internally, it’s almost become a second home to many agents. A reprieve between home and hell on the worst days, and other days nothing but a commute.

Right now, the pilot cabin is quiet as A.I. guides their journey through the looming clouds.

Glancing at the younger agent, positioned at the table offered on this transport ship, Commander Reyes notes that he has been distracted from cleaning his revolver by the weather; the clouds are laden with rare rain and strike an awestruck look in the younger man.

Jesse McCree was a creature of the desert, pulled from the hot dunes and impressive canyon walls years upon years ago. It seems the reverence of the desert’s seldom rainstorms was never lost through all the years away from home.

For just a moment, his eyes rove over Jesse’s features. With his hat lying before him on the table, his brunette hair was hanging into his face and refusing to keep behind his ears despite the efforts. The twitch of his eyebrows and the minute twist of his lip corner as annoyance flashes across his face at his incompliant hair makes Reyes huff a laugh to himself.

Reyes turns back to the communications table, retraining his eyes on the hologram texts and diagrams. Beside and across from him, his highest ranking agents watch him for instruction. 

The mission at hand was fairly simple- there have been reports of mass weapon trafficking in the area, and prior experience points to a well-known nuisance of Overwatch: the Deadlock Gang. Never have they been able to fully squash the infestation of the gang in the valley riding along Route 66, as told by their reappearance in the last several years. This was the second time they have been sent out to confiscate the arms stash and arrest all gang members they could, as they propagate like roaches under the rule of the leader.

After a few brief instructions, Commander Reyes details all available information about their foreign environment; the layout of the land, the weather conditions, the locals, and the gang’s behaviors and noted movements. Nodding along diligently, the two sergeants before him, both determined women in their prime, soak up the information like they were as parched as the desert around them.

Yet again, although with a point, he turns his attention to Jesse. Even with multiple agents milling about the cabin, standing about, shooting the shit, or preparing for the mission, the sergeants know exactly who their commander has turned to look at.

“Agent McCree is vital to this mission in more ways than one,” he states, voice low enough to not single him out to anyone else but the two women before him, “These are his stomping grounds, so he knows the lay of the land better than all of us. Not only that, but this was  _ his _ gang. He’ll save us time and show us exactly where we need to look.”

Crossing his arms and pointedly looking from one to the other, he continues; “But there’s a catch. If they catch wind of Agent McCree in this area, they  _ will _ come for him.” 

Both women straighten themselves under the deathly-serious current rolling under Reyes’ voice.

“It is imperative that we do this as efficiently as possible. We will stay together and stay quiet as units to prolong detection- once they know that Agent McCree is with us, it will be a game of keep away until we can clean up and get out.”

Shutting off the hologram and allowing the natural light to wash over the sergeants’ faces, he scans their faces and allows a moment for comments and concerns.

“Commander Reyes, sir,” one pipes up. It’s Sergeant Santiago, the older of the two, with hardened lines etched into her tan skin from years of serving. Reyes had always been fond of her, admiring her straight-laced personality and cut-throat approaches, her willingness to have her own voice heard even in a room of superiors. A valued second opinion and one of the best sergeants he has ever trained.

He nods her permission, and she asks her question, “If one of the primary goals is to keep Agent McCree hidden, what is the method in mind to do so?”

“First, Agent McCree will remain with me for as long as possible. He will give me information as it comes up that is crucial I hear first so there’s a plan for everyone. Then, once detected, as it is inevitable, he will be passed along to your unit, Santiago. Once he is detected there, he will be entrusted to you, Sergeant Oberon,” Reyes states, turning to peer at Oberon. She tenses just so, a minute difference in her stance, but he catches it in the lines of her eyes. She’s new to the position, only the third time she has commanded her own unit. 

Her green eyes flicker between his own, conveying uncertainty. Such a green sergeant isn’t a preference, but he values experience as an effective teacher and trusts his training to do good and guide her. 

“Agent McCree is in good hands,” he offers placatingly, and Sergeant Oberon swells with the trust offered to her. The ginger nods firmly, confidence steeling her features.

“It will continue like that until we complete our mission. Whatever Agent McCree tells you, you listen. Wherever he thinks to check, you check,” Commander Reyes narrows his eyes and holds up two fingers, “Two conditions: inform me first before any actions are made and ensure Agent McCree gets home in one piece.” 

Both sergeants are deathly quiet as they nod curtly. Receiving acknowledgment, he concludes after a beat. “You know the plan, you know the drill. Trust your training, keep your coms online, and don’t be stupid. Dismissed.” 

Holding his ground, Reyes makes it evident that his presence will be continued in the conference cabin. Taking the hint, both women vacate, heading down the stairs to discuss with their respective units what the plan of action is. Watching them go, his eyes wander to McCree again.

Still in the same seat, still gazing out the window with youthful wonder, lost in thought. Reyes only feels somewhat bad to snap him out of it.

“McCree,” he calls through the cabins, temporarily halting the low hum of chatter. Everyone turns to look at Commander Reyes, but he’s only looking for those dark eyes to find his.

“I’d like to have a word with you,” he says, and although the words strike both pity in some agents and cynical humor in others, he means it personally. McCree seems to be the only one in the room to understand, as he holsters his revolver and grabs his ridiculous cowboy hat off the table before he makes his way through the crowd and up the stairs without a hurry.

Reyes watches the young man take his time picking his way through his crowd and breathes a gentle laugh, turning to busy himself with the hologram table. 

Considering the small transport ship, it doesn’t take McCree any time at all to find himself standing before his commander. He doesn’t need to look at him to know; his agent is at ease in the presence of his superior with his typical cocked hip and a hand loosely grabbing his belt buckle.

He hates looking at the flashy metal and the absurd acronym, but he lets McCree keep it for whatever reason.

“You’re going to make them think I’m getting soft with you, McCree.”

Reyes can hear the jingling snicker as McCree’s shoulders bounce with the depth of it, heavy in his chest. 

“What, like you ain’t?”

He rolls his eyes and thumbs through the sketched diagrams he has drawn up for the mission, through the in-depth notes he’s jotted in the margins and on separate documents illustrating the possibilities. Possibilities of failure, of casualty.

“Keep pushing it and we’ll see.”

“Careful, boss. Y’know I like a challenge.”

“Hm,” Reyes hums as he’s scanning his scrawled words before he glances at McCree, who has taken to wandering the conference cabin, eyeing the computers and technology.

He keeps glancing out the windows, at the storm brewing outside.

“How are you feeling, McCree?” Reyes asks, powering off the hologram table for the last time as he faces the younger man fully. It takes a moment for him to be able to wrench his eyes away from the outside world, his face smoothing over into nonchalance.

“Doin’ just fine,” he says with a practiced smirk, radiating confidence and comfort. Faced with Reyes scrutiny, it cracks just so, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“Don’t be coy with me, McCree,” Reyes says firmly, more of a father knocking on the door of his son’s room rather than an angry superior. His tone has gentled into something more paternal, and suddenly hearing his last name a third time strikes a match of annoyance in McCree. Again, he turns to gaze out the windows, tracking the way the clouds fly past the ship with his eyes.

Studying him for a moment, Reyes sighs. He can tell the younger is anxious. It might be almost impossible to tell if it were anyone else in his place right now, but he knows the kid like the back of his hand. Years of wrangling the brat into order and training him personally have opened his eyes to all his possible tells- how to catch him in his excuses when he’s up to his usual bullshit, how to tell when he’s been pushed too far when he’s too stubborn to admit it himself, and how to search his eyes and pull out what he’s feeling.

“I know you didn’t want to come back here,” Reyes starts before he stops, gauging McCree’s every move before he continues. There are a few tense moments between them where he meticulously picks and chooses his words, but he ends up silent. What he did say was enough, as McCree’s whole outward demeanor transforms in a blink of an eye. His shoulders tense for a moment before falling in a terse shrug, then his fingers curl and squeeze the leather of his gloves before he crosses his arms.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he bites sourly, refusing to spare Reyes a glance.

Reyes scowls at McCree’s profile for a moment before sighing, “you know you’re the only person who knows the area.”

“I know,” he grumbles, pulling closer to the window. Reyes rolls his tongue in his mouth for a moment, looking for the right words that will ease some of that tension from the other.

“It will go a lot smoother with your help.”

“I know,” he says, irritation lacing his words. His fists the heavy material of his reinforced undershirt, worrying the fabric. Sighing through his nose, Reyes crosses the small room to stand beside McCree. Before following his gaze into the infinite expanse of the troposphere, he stares hard at his profile.

The pinch of his eyebrows, cinching in the middle and high, the set of his jaw flexing the muscles across his face. He’s not just frustrated with Reyes, but he’s worried as well. About what, he can’t tell exactly.

The clouds speed past them as fast as their thoughts.

“Doesn’t rain here often.”

“No,” McCree says, voice softening, “no, it doesn’t.”

Reyes allows him to drink in the fattened clouds, to catch up on whatever train of thought he interrupted earlier. He’s done his best to get out of the other man what’s bothering him, but he’s not one to pull teeth. Emotions have never been his strong suit, much better at commanding them into obedience than acknowledging them. One of the qualities that made him commander of the covert operations, head of Blackwatch.

With McCree, it’s different. He’s learned that those emotions have to be tackled head-on and dealt with or else they linger, making McCree shut off parts of himself. In battle, it can be a tactical decision that saves lives, but for an interpersonal relationship, it’s damaging. There are few agents that Reyes has allowed the room to be friendly with him and not strictly professional. 

And there’s only one that he allows to make indecent jokes and follow them with kittenish winks.

Reyes has grown to like them, hate to love them, as they’re part of McCree’s charm. 

If not a man that knows his own limits, he understands that he can only do and say so much to make things seem better, and he’s not about to sugarcoat things to make them easier to swallow. He almost makes a turn to leave the young agent to depress, but McCree starts and stops suddenly.

“They’re going to look for me,” a scowl deepens the lines of Reyes’ face, not missing how small McCree’s voice came out, “they’re gonna look hard.”

“I know,” Reyes says, “I’ve debriefed with the sergeants and have given them explicit instructions to keep you hidden.”

“Nah, it doesn’t work like that,” McCree mutters, shaking his head miserably. His brunette hair falls into his face even with the press of his hat. “They’ll find me.”

“They won’t find you, McCree,” Reyes says firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing the unyielding metal of his shoulder guard. “Not if I have anything to do about it.”

They stand like that, not speaking as there is nothing left to be said, for what feels like an hour. Gazing out the window, both of them just soak in the other’s company. McCree appreciating Reyes beside him for the grounding warmth of his superior and the heavy assurances he promises. Reyes, for the true motivation that McCree brings to the mission that normally would not be there. It has become a chore to carry missions, leaving him feeling worn and ragged with the stress of overseeing so many bodies and being responsible for their safety. Now, there is intrinsic motivation attached; protecting McCree from possible harm is not an easy task, but it fills him with renewed determination that wouldn’t have come with such a mission.

Beside them, Reyes notices the flashing of the pilot terminal. They were approaching the drop zone.

“Get ready, kid,” he says, finally releasing McCree’s shoulder and taking a few steps away, “we’re ten minutes out.” All he gets in return is a nod, and he lets the agent stay there as long as he needs to compose himself.

Standing atop the stairs, he clears his voice. The room doesn’t need a minute to fall silent once more, recognizing the sound as an alarm. Surveying the agents in the communal cabin, he sees eager eyes and determined ones.

“We’ll be dropping in ten minutes,” he declares, leading into a list of equipment required and a quick debrief, taking special care to stress the importance of prioritizing McCree’s safety. Behind him, McCree emerges and stands beside him.

His back is straight and he’s as close to standing at attention as he’s been in months with Reyes. There’s an uneasy seriousness in his gaze, keeping it from looking at peoples’ faces. He’s never been shy in the public eye, always gravitated towards the center of attention if anything, but the sudden demand for his protection has made him subdued.

Diligently, however, he stands beside his commander until he’s finished speaking before he heads to grab his gear from the lockers. Reyes watches him go with a dull ache in his chest, chalking it up to McCree’s anxiety getting to him a little.

Always prepared beforehand, he has set positions that each unit will stay with fall back positions and points in case things go awry. His own squad of five will take the vacated dinner as their designated position, being the furthest from the probable weapons cache. Sergeant Oberon and her six agents will set up in Big Earl’s abandoned gas station, centered between Reyes and Sergeant Santiago, whose squad of seven will take up the rundown saloon near the garage in the middle of the canyon, closest to the nest.

Everyone has their orders, the mission objectives couldn’t have been made any clearer. He can only hope that it goes as smoothly as on paper, like with every mission.

When the transport ship comes to a shuttering stop atop the blacktop in front of the old diner, Reyes finds himself watching McCree’s every reaction. There is none, he finds, as he’s completely shut himself off.

Reyes opens the doors. The vacuum of the maintained air levels in the cabin causes a storm of dust to obscure the entrance for an uneasy moment, choking the unsuspecting and stinging their eyes. It settles, and they set out to take roost in their designated positions. 

Reyes and McCree are the last to leave the transport ship and the last to enter the diner. The commander’s unit has already set about preparing the diner to be their temporary living quarters and supply stash. With his supervision, it takes no time at all, and Reyes waits on standby until the other units check-in and report a safe arrival.

It will take upwards of an hour or more for the furthest squad to reach their destination, having to take extra precautions to remain undetected upon entering the heart of the canyon, and then some to prepare. For the time being, the agents have started to get comfortable and the friendly banter has picked up once again. Reyes pulls in a heavy breath and sighs, turning to take McCree’s place and take a minute to stare out the windows at the impressive drop of canyon walls into a deep ravine.

Just as the crew finishes bringing the last of the supplies and rations into the diner, the thunderstorm rolls in, blackening the sky to an almost nocturne hue with great dark clouds. Fat drops begin staining the soil outside, darkening the ground’s rust-orange into a deep red at an increasing speed as the storm grew from a spitting rain to a deluge in a matter of ninety seconds or so.

It allows McCree a slight distraction from the agonizing worries and irritation tugging at his chest and sucking the moisture from his mouth. The gentle ping of the occasional raindrop shifting into a constant rattle against the tin of the diner’s roof fills a certain category of silence that he isn’t even aware permeates the room until the rain dispels it. As much as the weather is worrying in regards to getting the other sergeants to their positions, it brings a hint of reassurance to him for whatever reason.

He’d always adored the rain, given its scarcity throughout his younger years. Jesse has never been partial to any particular religion, but he always took it as a sign that, perhaps someone or something was gracing him with their presence. He doesn’t feel particularly lucky in that moment, but it does soothe a tiny, tucked away fraction of himself.

As much stealth and discretion that the mission calls for, Jesse can only subdue himself for so long—and besides, no one would be able to see more than five feet in front of themselves to spot him due to the downpour—he peels away from his dutiful position at Gabriel’s side to lean in the yet-open diner doorway. Apart from the warm glow tipping the end of the cigar he’s puffing on, there’s very little to betray his position at all (though he doesn’t expect Reyes to listen to that logic if he were hassled over it; for as rational as he is, McCree is keen on the Commander’s soft spot for him. The very soft spot which wouldn’t currently allow Jesse to undergo any undue risks).

He clenches the vanilla-flavored cigar between his teeth delicately as he turns his forearm over to examine the dark linework marring his arm. It turns revulsion over in his stomach and again churns the anxiety which the rain had once quelled to a simmer. The only recompense he is given is that the ink had only just begun to fade from lack of touch-ups. Jesse’s fingers brush delicately over the disfigured skin, akin to how one would handle an ancient artifact; a certain amount of reverence and a certain amount of fear that one miscalculated move would cause him damage. Giving it too much attention made his mouth water slightly, as if preparing to vomit.

His eyes flick up from his examination as the harsh click of Reyes’ boots against the slate-gray tile floor betray the Commander’s approach, no doubt to scold him for being in such plain sight. He allows his arm to fall to his side again in a vain attempt to hide what he had been doing.

“Ain’t no one seeing me in this weather,” he says preemptively, pointedly looking straight out the door rather than at Reyes. Somehow Jesse manages to make even such a small gesture an act of defiance, which would elicit irritation from Gabriel if he hadn’t already braced himself for it.

“Not with the naked eye, you’re right,” Reyes says, a stern edge cutting his tone. This was an anticipated move, knowing full well that he would not only be protecting McCree from the attention of his old gang, but from his own actions, spurred by tainted nostalgia.

The storm of the desert is a sight to behold, even to those not native to these lands. Rare is it for many to escape the bustling city life to travel across the globe, and rarer still for beauty to be found in such arid conditions when met with an untrained eye. For McCree, there was another world hiding in the sand and parched desert shrubs, and he understands all too well the memories a simple weather event can hold, the emotions tethered to the clouds as they come and go.

The barrage of heavy rain droplets pattering steadily against the aluminium roof slats worked a spell on him for just a moment and McCree, with jingling spurs, belt buckle, and all, managed to evade his attention. 

“It’s been years. We don’t know what technology they could have now,” Reyes’ words are blunt enough to warrant the slightest shift in McCree, head obstinately angling just that much further away from him. Internally, he has to stifle a miffed sigh, translating it into the tightening of his eyebrows.

It’s a pointed statement, not allowing emphasis to bleed into how he says  _ we, _ as it’s not necessary. While McCree knows the lay of the land intimately, he’s been estranged from the gang for far too long to know for certain what their limitations and capabilities are. A gang as old and indefatigable as the Deadlock Gang curates a formidable barrier in their intelligence. The ringleader behind it all is keen, understanding the rapidly evolving world and the demand of upgraded technology, as evident in what their teams encountered the last time they were deployed to these canyons.

Unsuccessful, although with limited casualties, it prompted a total reevaluation of their approaches. There were too many variables and too many loopholes in their plans left open in the absence of adequate information.

For many missions carried out in foreign countries with unfamiliar terrain, there is often a local guide delicately selected and used as a protective barrier against surprises. Luckily, it was easy for Commander Reyes to find a guide, bypassing the need for screening and watching for signs of collaboration. 

Now, it almost seemed as though it would have been easier to scrounge up one of the few locals and bribe them with security and compensation, one that wouldn’t be averse to the idea such as the one he has. McCree had been pushing against the idea from the get-go, and while Reyes is more inclined to allow his agents the free will to choose, it was ultimately not his choice this time.

Strike Commander Morrison has been looking at the folders on the Deadlock Gang for years now, ever since they popped up on their radar. As Morrison put it, the one good thing to come out of all the operations to Route 66 has been Agent McCree, but no more resources can be wasted. This mission is set to be the final one, the ultimate goal to capture the leader, incarcerate her goons, and seize their weapons stash. 

If anything, McCree’s displaced anger should be directed towards Commander Morrison. Through hours of meetings and discussions, with McCree’s voice projected through Reyes with the additional precautions and risks that came with his added presence, it was ordered that the young agent be enlisted for the mission. The kid knows that Reyes kept his word true and stuck with it, but it was out of his control even as Commander of the Blackwatch division.

“McCree,” he commands now, voice allowing no further leeway, but knowing McCree, he’ll find and make room for some more.

The authoritarian lilt to Reyes’ voice grinds on his nerves like nothing else. In any other circumstance, Jesse would be pleased with such blunt direction with no room for uncertainty—uncertainty in times of duress only caused unnecessary losses—but it aggravates him now, when he’s all but told to be a sitting duck for the gang. By someone akin to a father figure, no less. He’s well-aware Reyes had no say in who was to be involved, and actively advocated for countless alternate plans, but his status and relatively lax demeanor around McCree makes him an easy target for venting frustrations.

McCree resolves to cross his arms, taking the cigar from between his teeth and exhaling the smoke in the vague direction of his commander. Eyes flashing with indignation, he maintains a flat, if embittered, tone as he shifts the attention away from himself, “They’ll be lucky if their sites aren’t waterlogged by now.”

Allowing Gabriel at least one small victory, he takes a half step back and appeases him by nudging the door closed with the toe of his boot, spur jingling in time with the cheap chime on the door. “You tell me when you need my help. I won’t be goin’ anywhere.”

Tense eye contact ensues for a fraction of a second that feels about ten seconds long before Jesse brushes past Reyes to retreat to one of the vacant booths near the rear of the restaurant. As he walks, it’s with mild discontent that he realizes, somehow even in its disuse, the diner floor still manages to be vaguely sticky. He knits his brow as he settles into the tacky red pleather seat, and opts to gaze out the window moodily rather than grant Reyes the satisfaction of thinking he’s broken him of is willfulness just yet.

As small a detail as it seems, missing only the smell of the rocky earth drinking up all the water that the clouds would provide confined Jesse better than any prison could. Replacing that scent with that of a dingy little worn-down diner—old fry oil, crumbs so old an archaeologist would take interest crushed into the upholstery, and the lingering despair of any poor soul forced to staff it—is, in that moment, a fate worse than death. Gabriel’s disapproving gaze burning into him only heightens the impact of the dreary conditions they’re stuck in.

Lost in his thoughts, he hardly notices as Captain Fletcher, Reyes’ second-in-command, slides into the adjacent booth; he’s only roused by the jostling caused by him settling in. The only indication McCree cared enough to question the intrusion was his quirked brow.

Attuned to McCree’s occasional ornery streak, he doesn’t break stride, so to speak. As busy as everyone else was, hustling around to attend to their duties, he seemed about twice or thrice as occupied.

“Last I heard, word was that the sergeants were having problems reaching their target sites. I would tell Commander Reyes, but... he already seems more high-strung than usual. We thought you’d be the best person to tell him,” he explains quickly, and though his voice remains strong, it is plain that he was delivering bad news. It could jeopardize the mission, and very easily end in unprecedented disaster. “The weather’s what stopped them. Not enough manpower to get through the worst of it.”

The captain waits only for a curt nod from Jesse before sliding back out of the booth hurriedly to discipline those who thought the brief lull in action is an opportunity to slack off.

With an exhale, McCree glances back toward Gabriel, who has since taken to glancing over the local map once more, seemingly preparing to have to complete the procedure without trying to persuade an entirely unwilling agent. As much as his anxiety about returning to his stomping grounds motivates his thoughts, his intrinsic sense of duty is capable of overriding that fear and gives him a lapse, however brief, to assist in their initiative.

Drawing one more breath and shoving his pride deep down, he pushes out of his seat once more to confront his superior. McCree tugs the bill of his hat down, as to obscure the tinge of shame infecting his expression. Truth be told, he knows that prioritizing his own emotions over the success of the mission is reprehensibly selfish, if not near treasonous, in Gabriel’s eyes. The commander required nigh unwavering loyalty and surgical precision in order to mitigate losses, and were Jesse anyone else, going against these basic tenets was grounds for dismissal.

“Santiago and Oberon are in need of some assistance,” he says, the formality unnatural on his tongue. Even so, he figures he owes Reyes a greater helping of respect, at least for the time being. “They got caught out in the storm.”

Drawing himself straight after committing the geography to memory, Reyes turns his attention to the younger agent. He was typically expecting a cool-off period upwards of an hour with the ornery young man, not anticipating McCree’s voluntary approach within five minutes.

Far and few between are their spats, if they can even be called that. Between a high-ranking superior and a common agent, any disagreement is customarily met with an insubordination charge and whatever disciplinary measure the superior deems best fit. Between Commander Reyes and Agent McCree, it drifts closer into the lane of a surfeited father and his waspish son rather than a damnable offense. 

Even when presented with blatant acts of indiscipline, Reyes exemplifies unprecedented allowance with him. 

Digesting the information in full and already beginning to draw up a new plan of action, he evaluates McCree’s expression next. Letting him hang for a long moment, Reyes skims over the other’s face, content to let his subordinate squirm under the scrutiny.

McCree has tugged his hat down just so, sheepishly obscuring his eyes. There is a resigned admittance in his eyes that he’s come down to Earth and accepted his circumstances at the present moment, but it’s only so long before his nerves get to him once more. There isn’t quite an apology hidden in the straight set of his eyes, but there is an attempt in his voice to smooth over any ruffled feathers.

`“Alright,” Reyes says, releasing the breath he was holding and letting McCree breathe with the silence broken, “thank you, McCree.” Glancing down to the map laid out on the dining room table and letting the pounding of the rain fill the space between them, his eyes dart over the streets and buildings marked as well as the more obscure landmarks and canyon grooves. It’s an older map, outdated by more years than McCree’s been alive, with coffee stains patterning the corners and the well-loved creases threatening to give way and fall apart into a puzzle.

As far as it goes, it might as well be, but it’s the best that they could find.

The one act of obedience McCree can hold himself to, no matter his temper, is waiting for a dismissal. Standing at attention, body awkwardly stiff, and hands uncomfortably at his sides, McCree doesn’t even allow himself to shift his weight on the tacky tile floor or to busy his hands on his heavy belt buckle.

Sighing, Reyes fixes McCree with a look- his eyes softened and comprehensive, “I need to go out there and provide relief to Santiago and Oberon. Given the unexpected rainstorm, Santiago’s unit will need more muscle to ensure all equipment makes it in one trip to limit presence in the open. Oberon is unable to provide extra personnel as they need to establish reconnaissance as quickly as possible.”

McCree nods in understanding, expression set. Wind batters the thin windows of the diner, rattling them in their frames. The architecture is not designed to withstand such aggressive treatment, with the windows shuddering and the tin slats of the roof wavering.

“I need you to come with me,” Reyes orders, but he hasn’t hardened against McCree’s opposition, not yet. “Santiago will be waiting at Oberon’s position in the old saloon, I trust you know the quickest and most discreet way.”

“Yes, sir,” McCree says stiffly, impersonally. He has half the mind to crack a joke about how useless the fraying map was, considering half the roads marked on it were long since blown away or reclaimed by the desert after years of vacancy. He’s familiar enough with each swell and depression of rock to navigate by landmark, but anyone left stranded without some sort of a personal navigator was coyote bait, given the spotty GPS signal that is available. 

He shifts his weight between his feet uncomfortably. As eager as he was just an hour ago, deep down, to set foot on the inhospitable land once more, even he’s apprehensive about braving the storm. And he’s got no expensive and cumbersome equipment to haul behind himself. 

“We don’t have a choice but to walk,” he states, allowing his glance to stray towards the sheets of rain throwing themselves against the glass. “Or wait until it passes.”

McCree tosses around the idea of offering to brave the storm alone, but Reyes would frown on any agent splitting off from the group unnecessarily—much less one so critical for mission success. And, more privately held, there’s no way he’d allow his chosen son to endanger himself so blatantly unless there were a dire need. Instead, McCree holds his tongue and listens for instruction yet again. 

While Gabriel is busy weighing his options, Jesse remains stock-still, only permitting his eyes to wander back to his commander’s face. If pressed, he’d make up the excuse that he’s either zoned out somewhat, or that he is simply awaiting command. In truth, his intentions are unclear even to himself, but watching Reyes’ expression shift is fascinating to him, even if it did make his stomach feel as though he were being thrown downhill on a cycle. 

By now, Reyes has really begun to kick himself for not paying attention to the weather forecast, as the last thing he expected upon arrival to a dry canyon was the luck of experiencing the only torrential downpour of the year. And as loathe as he is to admit it, McCree is right, except that given the meticulous time tables they have laid out, there isn’t time to wait for a year’s worth of rain to come down before mobilizing. 

Sergeant Oberon’s unit should be reconnoitering the region to familiarize themselves with the terrain and prepare adequate reconnaissance positions while Sergeant Santiago makes the walk to their position. Delaying further creates complications, as it won’t take long before the residents and consequently the local gang to pick up on the small-scale military presence, considering that the local population is twice their agent count and some change.

Much to his chagrin, him and McCree will have to brave the weather with minimal protection. It wasn’t in his plans to get drenched in the downpour, but he’ll do what needs to be done to ensure the safest circumstances for his agents.

“We can’t afford to lose time,” Reyes says brusquely, watching the rain assault the doors with irritation before his gaze shifts back to McCree, “I’ll brief Captain Fletcher, be ready to go.” Without waiting for a response, he leaves the younger agent to his own devices for the time it takes to inform the captain. 

It wasn’t lost on him the apprehension McCree exhibited, even without his consent. The fidgeting and strained inflection of his short words were all he needed to know that he’ll be dealing with a jumpy, resistant agent for the long walk ahead. To make matters worse, he’s certain that being a part of the rain is a lot less pleasant than watching from the sanctuary of four walls and a roof. Reyes is only hoping the other man can brave the weather and spare Reyes any more grief.

Taking no less than a couple minutes to find Captain Fletcher and update them on his decision, Reyes returns to the front of the diner to find McCree staring on tenterhooks into the gray wall of rain. By now, it seems to have waned somewhat to a dull roar, not threatening the diner’s structural integrity anymore, but still teasing the roof with more to come. 

One upside is that he can appreciate the desert’s ordinarily scorching temperatures, seeing as the rain will undoubtedly deter any threat of heat stroke or sunburn. Opening the doors of the diner, fresh air seeps in with stray droplets of water, evicting the stale scent of burnt coffee and greasy diner food. It offers incentive, replacing their senses with unadulterated relief if just temporarily. The wind that billows under Reyes’ hood has calmed into a pleasing and constant breeze, and the smell of the rust-rich earth soaking in the water is raw and tranquilizing.

Preparing for the onslaught of rain, he pulls his hood up over his knit cap and opens an invitation to McCree, holding the door with his forearm and looking at him with stoic expectancy. As the kid’s mind comes back to the present, having been lost in the nostalgic properties of the rain, he runs through a mental checklist of everything he ought to bring. Secure communications line alive, extra ammunition, and the two shotguns secured to his back armor plate. It was nothing more than a simple errand, and he would rather not get anything else wet if he can afford it. There is little expectation for confrontation, but Reyes lives by ‘better safe than sorry,’ and he can tell that the appearance of the two imposing weapons on the commander offers some peace of mind for McCree.

Even the small gesture of Gabriel holding the door for him puts Jesse at ease, though the underlying implication of Reyes seeing him as feminine enough that he needs his doors held for him picks at the thin scab over his temper. He’s not given a chance to voice that annoyance, though, when another short burst of wind nearly tumbles the wide-brimmed hat right off his head and throws the door closed from Reyes’ hand.

He catches it, barely, but with his hair whipping into his face and the wind whistling like a songbird around the corners of the structure and dancing up into the canyon, communicating verbally could be risky. Too much noise would attract unwanted attention, even if it seems they are unnoticed now.

The initial winds they fought against upon arrival die down imminently, but only offers the slightest of reprieves before the deluge is thrown at them in occasional surges akin to a troubled ocean. Rather than stand there and get drenched, he signals for his commander to follow him as they begin their trek up along the meandering road.

As comforted as he is by Reyes’ presence—he reciprocates the unwavering trust that he demands of his agents—he still steadies his hand on his gun belt, near enough to his six-gun that he could draw in a flash at the first stirrings of trouble. The silence, only partially filled by the steady thrum of precipitation against the worn pavement, weighs on Jesse heavily, spurring him to speak just loud enough that there’s a fair chance Gabe might not even hear him.

“Shame you can’t see it when the weather’s nice.”

As much grief as returning to the desert brings him, disregarding the politics of the region, he adores being back. In the brief lapses between his fits of anxiety, he’s able to enjoy the climate for what it is—while it’s less dry than is ideal, it’s still perfectly warm enough for him. Particularly when he’s assigned to bitterly cold regions, he yearns for the familiar warmth that sweeps around oneself like a snug jacket and fills the lungs just as honey fills the mouth.

Though his best efforts to steel his gaze solely on their surroundings, he mistakenly allows himself a cursory glance towards his commander. Dark clothes hugging each contour of his muscle and clinging skin-tight to his form worms its way into the forefront of his thoughts. Perhaps it’s the absolute taboo of it—not only admiring another man, which caused bile to burn up in disgust, but another man who held absolute authority over him—that draws the primal portion of his brain to it so intensely.

There have only been two positives to the rain: the obstruction of their footsteps and a shield from the suffocating heat that boils the desert sand. On the other hand, Reyes is acutely aware that his clothes have begun to cling to his frame, water has begun to get underneath his armor, and his hood has done next to nothing in terms of protection. Feeling more like a drowned cat than an imposing black-ops strike commander, Reyes follows his agent at a healthy distance. It’s tactical- staying several feet behind to ensure the canyon ridges are clear while keeping up enough to be able to intervene if someone were to jump McCree from a corner. 

In the life of an undercover agent, paranoia becomes a good acquaintance. Without it, the mind gets comfortable and loses the sharp edge necessary to anticipate enemy surprises. He’s seen a few agents, cocky and reckless, charge into traps and grievously pay the price of turning against mother nature’s most important survival strategy. The anticipated assault, even if it never comes, serves to ready the reflexes and allow the ingrained training to kick in when it does happen.

But too much of it can be a problem, as true with many things in life. Here, Reyes is shadowing his young agent, truthfully for safety measures, but because it also placates a nagging in the back of his mind. All too recently, because of rash decisions he made, he has encountered the reality of McCree’s perishability.

Not once, but twice, fighting tooth and nail to get through Rialto after he executed Antonio, he bore witness to attacks laid upon McCree that would have typically ended in a grisly demise: an Enforcer’s charged shotgun blast point-blank to the chest and falling beneath the Assassin’s scythes.

Realistically, McCree should have died, alive because of sheer luck and luck alone. It’s an undeniable truth that Reyes had found to be hard to swallow, bitter on his tongue and burning in his throat like bile, but he’s a man that values the harsh reality of things if nothing else. The scene of McCree taking an Enforcer round and being thrown several feet, then helplessly bearing witness to McCree getting taken down by the Assassin and watching her superheated scythes gouge the weakened armor- threatening with one more strike to break through to the fragile body underneath- it all preyed on Reyes’ mind.

In the thick of it, preoccupied with fighting off wave after wave of Talon grunts, they didn’t have a moment to spare to stop and check beneath McCree’s armor for extensive damage. In the evac ship, once they put distance between them and the entirety of Venice, Reyes had ordered McCree to remove his chest plate and open his undershirt to ensure nothing was broken in the fray.

Even handling McCree’s armor chassis brought forth bone-deep anxiety, holding in his hands the testament of McCree’s luck. Waiting for the sore and exhausted agent to work through the top buttons of his uniform suit, Reyes took in the altered geography of the reinforced metal; buckshot embedded in the dents warping the surface, separated by three two-inch deep scores. Running his fingers underneath the plate, he feels where the metal had split into a fatal flower.

Upon evaluating McCree’s chest, the subsequent result of the Enforcer’s shotgun was a bruise that blossomed across the entire expanse of his ribcage like morbid art. Dead in the center was a gash that was still slowly bleeding. McCree’s face would contort and he would grit his teeth loud enough for the commander to hear as he tentatively checked each rib, even as he steadfastly denied being in pain.

All the previous anger and frustration he had felt towards McCree and his glaring insubordination washed away as he watched the young man become breathless with the pain. Whatever tenderness he expressed towards his agent, he kept it to his fingertips skittering pointlessly over where the bruise had already begun to purple. Stoic to a fault, the only change to Reyes’ face was an even deeper scowl, and to the rest of the world, it was written off as his anger towards the mission and the consequences he will inevitably have to face because of his actions. Even to McCree, it was indiscernible, whether the anger was towards an external source such as him or if it was even anger at all.

As life picked up and carried on as usual for most of the Blackwatch organization, Reyes recognized that he had begun treating McCree differently. There was a constant itch to be a little less rough when they sparred and even McCree’s outbursts didn’t dig into his skin as much as they usually did. Never one to promote favoritism, McCree was still subject to the same punishments and gruelling drills as the rest of the agents under Reyes, but he couldn’t help as it translated in his interpersonal interactions with the young man.

Dragging McCree out into the desert, the area controlled by the very gang he helped found, did nothing but heighten that hardwired instinct as commander to watch out for his agents. Arguably, this mission is more dangerous than Rialto, even if it only applies to McCree.

Catching the agent glancing over his shoulder, Reyes’ frowns, believing that something worrisome has caught his attention. Moving to close the gap between the two so they’re walking side by side, Reyes doesn’t prompt McCree into speaking as there are ways he would let his commander know there’s a problem. Years of working together, executing countless stealth operations, has made both of them intune with each other’s nonverbal cues. It’s an invaluable skill that has saved their lives many times in the past.

Walking along at a steady pace, Reyes begins to relax. As McCree is sure to find comfort in Reyes' presence as his own personal bodyguard, the commander finds solace in the kid’s exceptional memory of the geographical landmarks even after many years have passed. At times, the canyon walls seem to repeat endlessly with nothing but a road underfoot and spires of rock looming over them. On his own, he knows that he would have undoubtedly gotten turned around and lost in the walls of weeping rust.

After several more minutes of silence interrupted by distant claps of thunder and the oscillating thrum of rain, Reyes spots the gaping opening of an old mining tunnel. Half of his mind jumps at the opportunity to get a reprieve from the rain while the other recognizes the possibility of a more secluded route, decreasing their odds of getting spotted in comparison to out in the open.

He ducks his head close to McCree’s to avoid raising his voice and points to the mineshaft entrance. “Any way we could use those to our advantage?” he asks. 

Gooseflesh erupts at the base of McCree’s neck when he realizes just how close his commander’s face is to his, but he internally shoves the thought down before it can do much more than pull a heat up to his cheeks that makes his insides roil with the volatile cocktail of his feelings for Reyes. It takes him another second to pull himself out of his head and make a call.

“It’s dryer, for sure. Might be dark, and close quarters if we’re ambushed, though,” he ponders aloud, though hardly loud enough to be audible over the din. Jesse trusts no one deeper than Reyes, even though his confidence in his teammates is supposed to be equal and unwavering, so even if they were to get into a skirmish within the mine shafts, he has full confidence they’d pull through together. They’d stared down far more intimidating enemies than a few Deadlock drudges and come back breathing.

He runs his thumb nail absently against the patchy stubble sprouting from his cheek, weighing his options for another beat, before signaling Reyes his intent to peel off from the main road to delve into the maw of the tunnel.

“Couple sentries might be around the corner here,” he all but mouthed to Reyes. The relative silence of the shaft, apart from the stray chirp of wind catching on the sharp, manmade vertices of stone that formed the external structure, gave him hope that they truly were alone. Silence grew to be torturous, especially when attending to such menial tasks, so it would be nigh unheard of for any grunts to not be shooting the shit while they waited for something interesting to happen.

The ever-present smirk that seemed to tease at Jesse’s lips flattens out as he focuses. Drawing his six-gun from its holster with practiced silence, he inches near the first blind bend in the tunnel. McCree strains his eyes in the dimness, thankful even for the small oases of light offered by the shoddy lamps dotted along the walls like breadcrumbs laying out a path.

Though he knows with near-certainty that they’re alone, his heartbeat still roars in his ears. Training does nothing to deter adrenaline when one’s body deems it time, though it causes nothing but difficulty in the forms of impaired decision-making and trembling weapon hands. Once the passage is cleared, he presses on and signals for Gabriel to stick close behind.

Working the way through the rest of the stretch of tunnel, Jesse remains hypervigilant. Perhaps it’s imagined, but he senses a scrap of pride from Reyes due to his meticulousness even despite his familiarity with the region. Cockiness is all too often the downfall of stellar agents, and Jesse ensures he takes all of their lessons to heart just as much as his own.

“Shouldn’t be too far now. Ten, fifteen minutes out yet,” he notifies Gabe, turning to properly look at his commander for the first time in a stretch.

The young agent’s breath scatters the dust particulates hanging in the dingy tunnels as he speaks. The thrum of McCree’s voice reverberates through the silent corridors, and Reyes winces, praying that nothing comes of it. 

So far, the mines have remained dark and dull. The only break in silence was their practiced foot steps, tentative in foreign territory. Long since accustomed to the various belts strapped to their bodies with bundles of extra ammunition and tools kits, they circumvent the obnoxious jingling of bullet casings and clinking metal buckles with trained ease. Still, as muffled as their movements may be, an alert sentry still has chances to pick up on their position. Given their environment, there was no way to be absolute in their silence, as loose gravel crunched under heavy bodies and the inherent rustling of their persons followed them.

As McCree began to round a blind corner, growing more comfortable with the labyrinth of identical passageways, a scruff against the uneven stone tore through Reyes’ attention. There isn’t a moment where Reyes can intervene and before either man can react, someone bursts through the corner, grappling McCree in a messy hold. 

It’s a quick exchange, McCree struggling through his surprise to shake off the assailant. The man has the upper hand for just a moment as McCree noticed a second too late to brace himself. The momentum of the attack knocks McCree to the side of Reyes, spine being painfully bent too far as the man tries to crush his windpipe with his forearm.

Deep-rooted reflexes kick in, and McCree’s hand starts to fly towards his six-shooter. As much as Reyes wants to commend the agent’s quick reactions and decisive problem solving skills, the very last thing they want to do is fire a revolver in an enclosed space. A single round from that revolver is liable to alert the entire canyon, the sound ricocheting off the infinite, solid walls. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Reyes is moving forward. Catching McCree’s wrist and wrenching it away from his holster, the commander throws his fist into the space between their heads to hook around the attacker’s own throat. Wresting the man away from McCree, he uses his gathered energy to spin them around.

The grunt Reyes lets out doesn’t muffle the sickening snap of the man’s neck nor the last cry of panic he emits. After a moment, the body sags out of his grip, collapsing to the floor in a heap of leather and gun belts. Looking just long enough to confirm the identity of the attacker as a Deadlock nobody, Reyes huffs a sigh and turns his attention away from the corpse.

McCree had a hand on his chest, trying to regain his breath after it was violently ripped from him. Eyes as wide as saucers, he was staring at the man with the faintest hint of recognition pinching his eyebrows together. It’s just for a moment before anger overtakes his features. 

Between the dance of scuffling feet scraping the dusty floor and the body before them, it was only a matter of time before more enemies arrived to investigate. There was no saying how far the sounds from brief struggle travelled and just how many sentries were positioned in the network of tunnels. There would be ample time once they’re back in their respective positions to argue about the logistics of killing the man.

“He saw you,” Reyes bites curtly, stepping over the body and towards McCree, “we need to keep moving.” His voice was cut low as a warning, shutting down all avenues for debate. Ordinarily, there would be a challenge hidden in his eyes as he glared him down, inviting McCree to try and argue with him, but there are far better places to start a spat than an echo chamber. 

McCree bites back a snapping, ‘No shit he saw us,’ instead suppressing his temper for a better time. He expresses his irritation instead in lingering eye contact before peeling himself off the earth that he was thrown to. Silently, he thanks the fact that he avoided concussion, and that Reyes was there to step in, but a deeply buried part of him harbors a sense of pity for the assailant.

Vague memories of the face, obscured equally by the passage of time and the scarce light illuminating his features, welled up to the forefront of his memories. It’s almost dreamlike in its combination of familiarity and foreignism. The cowboy spares one more glance at the man now laying lifeless on the floor, head cocked at an unnatural angle, before collecting his six-shooter and hat once more and pressing onwards.

It eats at him, the way he can feel the commander’s eyes boring into his back as they maneuver the space. Some nagging portion of his consciousness is certain that he’s let Gabe down irreparably, that somehow this one offense proves his incapability as an agent. Somehow he must prove his viability as an agent once more, if not for Reyes, then for himself.

Haste quickens his step, though the agent tries to be just as meticulous as before their brief quarrel. Voices of alarm and confusion bounce along the bare stone walls of the mine with increasing frequency, though with waxing and waning volume, muddying particulars of their location and proximity in regards to the pair of them. The limited information Jesse has heightens his alertness and brings tension to his shoulders. It is vital they remain undetected; even with his extensive training, only so much can be done to ease a shuddering firing hand.

They’re met only one more time with another grunt, though this one much more oblivious than the last. He isn’t even aware enough to hear them stalk up from behind. McCree dispatches him with relative ease, given their approach from behind. To avoid excess noise, he first covers the gangster’s mouth, giving him an odd rush when he hears him draw his last swirl of breath against the leather of his glove. Easily, he forces the man’s head backwards, using the element of surprise to his advantage. His spine pops and crackles like the gravel beneath their feet as the spinal cord is severed.

Jesse lays the man down easily, almost tenderly, unable to help his affection for the man who would have been considered his brother in arms had Reyes not pulled him out of the life. He’s certain it earns him a disapproving look from his commander, but for once it pings off of him like two-millimeter round off of his armor.

Shaking his head to himself, he forces himself back to the task at hand, desperately trying to, for once, not occupy himself with the way Reyes thought of him. It’s nearly a habit, constantly assessing and reassessing his standing in the commander’s eyes. Something he’s tried to force himself to stop doing, much to no avail.

Mercifully, perhaps miraculously, they’re able to wind their way through the labyrinth of tunnels, akin to anthills in their complexity and capacity to hold dead ends. Fragments of memories about the intricate tunnel system return to Jesse—more sensory details and emotions than tangible features, such as conversations he’d had with fellow gang members on stake outs, or the way the softer sections of gravel squished under boots—though with they still assist his guidance of Reyes through to the other side, spitting them out at the other mouth of the mines.

It seems with the three-quarters of an hour—a decent delay, considering the additional stealth they required after their initial kill—they’d spent in there allowed the weather ample time to lighten, as the downpour has slowed to a spitting drizzle. Even the overcast light is enough to sting at McCree’s eyes, equal to staring at the sun when compared to the oppressive darkness of the tunnels.

Nearing the opening of the mines, the juxtaposition of the natural light strains his eyes just so, the smell of the rain that tapered in the tunnels filling his senses again. It’s a pleasant change from the musty atmosphere, even if it means getting wet again in the near future. From their vantage point on elevated ground, having gone through various slopes and inclines, Reyes can see the gas station where the sergeants are positioned. The obnoxious sign announcing Big Earl’s brand is beaten and battered by storms over the years, the lights long since dead and the paint dulled.

Just as McCree began to step into the gentle rain and leave the enveloping darkness of the tunnel, he grabs McCree firmly by the shoulder. His eyes scanned the valley where the mines spit them out, searching the ridges for any silhouette. While they were still blanketed in the mine’s protective darkness, he ensured no one was waiting for them in the shade of the clouds. There was no doubt that awareness was spreading through the deadlock ranks of a hostile presence on their territory, and Reyes wasn't going to play games with how advanced their communications systems were- whether they remained word of mouth or if the new information has already reached the top.

After a few moments where he stilled McCree like a dog on a leash, he relinquishes his lease on McCree’s person after detecting no movement nor glint of a rifle scope. Nodding at him to lead on, it’s a sharp movement, as he’s not in the mood to be dealing with flippant emotions now that the danger of the mission has proven itself worthy of concern. 

Even if he didn’t spot anyone in the open doesn’t mean there couldn't be scouts in the shadows. Quickening their pace, Reyes overtakes McCree’s stride as they hurry down the ridges’ natural walkways, worn by many generations of use. It’s only a brisk minute that passes before they near the garage doors of the ancient gas station, shuttered to close off unwarranted attention.

Tapping the communications line open through the interface on his wrist, Reyes alerts Sergeant Santiago of their incoming presence. “We’re here, we’re coming in,” he says, not waiting for an invitation before he’s reaching to grab a hold of the garage door handle, threatening to snap off as the old metal shutters shrieked against the use. Holding the door up, he pauses to allow McCree under before he follows, lowering the heavy sheet with ease.

It isn’t as crowded as he was expecting, meaning that Sergeant Oberon has made quick work mobilizing her unit despite the heavy rains. Instead of a full house, it was only Santiago and her select few agents lounging about and chatting quietly amongst themselves, waiting for their arrival. The woman herself is propped against on of the walls, having been engrossed in reviewing the mission documents once more before Reyes came in through her ear piece.

“Hasn’t anyone told you to knock, before?” Santiago jokes easily, pocketing the hard light tablet.

“Couldn’t wait. Can’t risk standing out in the open,” Reyes says blandly. The humor vanishes immediately as Santiago recognizes the set of his jaw, straightening off the peeling eggshell blue walls. She leaves no time for pleasantries, getting right into the dirty business of it.

“How many sentries?”

“Two. Dealt with,” Reyes says, and the sergeant locks eyes with him with steely understanding. “Weather has lightened for now. We need to move.”

“Understood. Are we passing hands?” she says, gaze flicking past him to the young agent.

Reyes tosses a glance at McCree as well, contemplating for a moment or two before he answers with certainty, “no, not yet. They don’t know about him.”

“I'll fill Oberon in,” Santiago says after a respectful nod of acknowledgement, “everyone has as much gear as they can carry without being over-encumbered. Everything else is right here.” With her heavy military boots, she nudges a bag brimming with technology propped against a couple of equipment crates. Reyes nods a silent thanks and takes over her position by the wall as she moves away to relay the information with the other sergeant. 

Never one to stand around and waste time, he makes quick work of securing the equipment, he takes the bag by the straps and disconnects them which he then ties the loose ends around the handle of the decidingly heavier crate. Standing upright and lifting the crate as he went, he tests the weight on one arm with a few reps before easing it back down. 

Looking to where McCree was busy in his own thoughts, chewing the end of his cigar between puffs, he glowers just so. The kid has got to stop getting immersed in his own feelings, as he looks on the verge of drowning between the rocks of anger he’s pinned against and the ever rising tide of apprehension accompanied with his surroundings. Reyes’ patience can only extend so far before it becomes negligent allowance and complicates things.

“McCree,” he says, catching the agent's attention with the sharp snap of his name followed by the lighter crate sliding over the loose gravel and uneven pavement of the gas station floor. It’s caught by one of McCree’s feet, coming up to stop the momentum from knocking into his legs, and Reyes doesn’t care about the pissed look he’s likely to receive for that one.

Going around to each one of Santiago's agents, he asks if he can take something off their shoulders for them. Half of them are grateful for the offer, and that rewards him with two more supply bags and a second crate, although the crate was handed over hesitantly. The second thought of handing over the equipment made Reyes crack a smile about as knee high to a grasshopper as can be at the young agent, near the same age as his protégé. “It’s not gonna break me, kid,” he says with the faintest humor, and the agent sheepishly passes the crate over to him. 

The rest deny his aid, insisting that they have it under control, and he just incredulously quirks an eyebrow at them and moves on. By the time Santiago turns back around from her relay with Oberon, he’s gathered everything into something manageable.

“How’d I know you’d just do that?” she teases, moving to her own luggage and hoisting it over her shoulders, “could’ve saved me some work divvying everything up.” It’s an easy quip that Reyes allows himself to rise to, giving her the small victory of the smallest smirk in her direction.

“Should’ve trusted your gut,” Reyes says comfortably, following her lead to proceed by lifting up both of his crates with a small noise of exertion. It wasn’t uncomfortably heavy, not for him at least. Any normal man would have to edge closer to the physical appearance of Reinhardt to be able to achieve the amount of facility in carrying about hundred pounds in each hand as Reyes. It gives him some comfort that he differs from his agents in this sense, knowing that it can be utilized to the benefit of the entire team and not just as a personal bonus.

Miming their superiors, the five agents pick up their respective burdens and assemble around their commanding officer for further instruction. In turn, Santiago glances at Reyes, inviting him to speak, although he settles to shoot McCree a prompting look, a mute order to lead them right.

Jesse is able to overlook the minuscule slight of Gabriel sliding the box to him rather than simply beckoning him over and handing it off, but being hyper-aware of Reyes’ microexpressions—does he have anything besides those?—his smirk cuts clear down to the bone. The smile he allows Santiago is practically an outright declaration of near-paternal affection for the sergeant. An affection that McCree can’t recall the last time he was on the receiving end of.

His words to Santiago, too, cling to his thoughts like cactus spines cling to one’s fingertips. ‘Trust your gut.’ It makes Jesse’s temples clench.

Not only had he done so himself earlier and nearly endangered the mission, if not already outright betrayed their position, depending on the complexity of the gang’s technology—but how could Reyes expect her, someone not nearly so intimately acquainted with the desert, nor the lawless inhabitants, to trust her gut? Gabriel’s practically spit in McCree’s face, whether he’s aware of it or not.

But of course he’d be aware of it.

All of this processing happens in the blink of an eye, but gives himself something to ruminate on once he’s able to return to the safety of his own quarters. Even despite his best efforts to refocus his attention on his role as shepherd, as he takes up his own burden of equipment, it hangs over his thoughts and expression like clouds on an overcast day.

“Not too much further,” he says, absently, as if indicating a point of interest as a tour guide, rather than divulging vital information for the success of the mission. Compared to the diner nestled in relative safely, they are in the belly of the beast. “A fifteen or twenty minute walk, at worst.”

Given the lightness of the crate he’s handed, McCree is able to rest it partially on his hip, using his free hand to assist another agent in lifting the creaky garage door once again. Once everyone vacates the space, they gently lay the door back down and Jesse reclaims his role at the head of the party.

His alertness is betrayed by the hand resting near his six-shooter, but he does his best to project cool collectedness in order to put the other agents at ease. As much as he wants to crack a joke to dissolve the tangible emotion laced through the group like detonating cord, every sound made—from their footsteps to each insignificant grunt of an agent straining under their load—was another opportunity for the enemy to pick them out.

McCree’s only prayer is that neither Reyes nor Santiago underestimated the gang. As often as they might be portrayed as dumb, dirt-dwelling petty thieves, the only members fitting that description were the lowest of the low among their ranks. The leaders, and the ringleader herself, could rival Reyes’ command on a good day. Utmost caution isn’t just appropriate, it is necessary.

As they filed underneath the garage doors, nodding their appreciation at the two agents holding it open, Reyes and Santiago shared a look of understanding. Watching as her hand taps the visor helm tucked beneath her ear, screen flickering into existence over her right eye, there’s a mutual respect of their predisposed positions in the caravan. As an impeccable shot and highest ranking sniper in the Blackwatch division, her eyes turn sky high as she tracks the cliff faces vigilantly for competition with a tight grip on her sniper rifle.

He leaves her to stagger behind the line, knowing that they are assuredly protected from both snipers and flankers with her enforcement. Before they progress any further into the canyon, Reyes starts to walk through the agents. Wordlessly, he shuffles them like a herd dog, garnering their attention with a pointed look and leading them to where he thinks they ought to be, rearranging the unit to his satisfaction.

Sergeant Santiago was comfortable trailing in the backlines, dipping in and out of the cover provided by the ever-changing terrain while keeping a healthy distance. Before her were three of her own, hand-picked agents, two resigned to walk in the protection of their third as they hauled crates of vital equipment. They stuck several paces between Santiago and McCree, connecting the train as they weaved through the valley like snakes.

Mccree, unimpeded by his burden, was on a hair-trigger; hand already by his six-shooter, he seemed to anticipate discord in their short walk through a pretty town. Following on his quarters just behind him were the two agents with lightened clobber, assault rifles eased over their shoulders as they handled their load simultaneously. Close behind them, Reyes followed.

While the journey will ache profoundly in his biceps and shoulders for some hours after, there was an ulterior motive past being nice for securing more luggage as well as for the way he ordered the caravan. Plenty capable of securing McCree's safety on his own, it creates a tight seal around him with two agents flanking his blind spots instead of one. The only downside was that now, with his hands preoccupied, he would be worthless for a few short moments if there were to be an attack- the same applies to the two soldiers behind them, and that’s why he entrusted the third agent as their first defense and kept them close to Santiago for cover fire, if it were to come down to it.

There was a comforting blanket of protection amongst their ranks, even if it was only perceptible to Reyes, being the one to orchestrate the sequence. Death doesn’t play favorites, and neither can he, even while there are special exceptions. To play favorites or exercise excessive caution would leave several members of the unit without means to defend themselves, and he’s witnessed entire squads crumble under fire when commanding officers try to execute partiality on the field. A unit is only as strong as their weakest link, and with each link that breaks, the chain gets weaker.

Doing what he can with what little numbers he has at hand and remaining mindful of their complicating circumstances, Reyes has sacrificed his own cover to ensure that the rest of his flock is guarded. A few steps behind and paces ahead of their available fire is not his ideal position as it puts him at great risk for first pick, but that only means it’s drawing the gaze of the enemy away from the others.

There is a spontaneous chime in his communications line, and he tenses at the pitch, high and flat like a submarine’s radar ping. Santiago has specific signals attached to her visor's visual field, set to report into not only her own but other commanding officers’ ear pieces. The alerts are in varying tones with different meanings. 

The one in particular that Reyes heard relay to him meant that there was movement detected through meticulous analysis of the air currents and particulates interacting with the environment, movement that didn’t belong to their unit. Despite that, Santiago made no call to halt their movements, so Reyes kept his lips sealed. He’s not wont to cause an unwarranted panic if it were an animal, plant life, or harmless object billowing in the wind as is the case from time to time.

After fifteen paces, McCree comes out from the natural overhang they were all clinging to, coming to a split corner of intersecting paths. The intersection flowers into different petals, some more downtrodden and worn than others. Santiago’s visor chimes again, a dull knell this time. Whatever the radar picked up wasn’t a threat to them, likely a desert raptor looking for a meal on the barren canyon floor. She can’t communicate this far back or else her voice could carry with the wind into the furthest recesses of the canyon.

The matter settled itself when Reyes picked up the distant, thunderous claps of a great bird’s wings pushing into the air above them. Casting a slow shadow before McCree’s feet to draw his attention, he watches the young agent almost stall in his tracks as he catches the hawk glide overhead, just for a possible second.

The rest of the trek is deathly quiet. The rain has long since eased into a shy sprinkle and the window has picked up into a steady whistle through the walls and hills. The route was easier to remember than the maze of tunnels, although they are most likely not going to utilize the mines again as the risk of detection there now far outweighs the chances in the open. One of the branching paths opens into a soft bowl in the earth littered with ramshackle and broken down buildings.

There, in the center of the valley was the saloon they were looking for. The old swinging doors, faded into hue of gray rather than green, stuck open at odd angles contrasting each other, and the decrepit porch in front did little to incite trust in the building’s structural integrity, but he’ll be damned if he walked all this way for nothing. 

Splitting away from the pack and drawing their weapons, those protectors of the group stalk towards the saloon’s suspicious front door while the rest seek shelter from sight. The neighboring building is somehow in worse-off condition than the saloon, rivalling the beaten out windows and brittle wooden floors with the walls blown out on two separate sides. It’s a miracle that the walls still prevailed, supporting not only its own weight but the weight of the second story above, connected to the saloon’s open balcony through a catwalk.

Suddenly, one of the agents that breached the building to clear the rooms popped their head out one of the shattered upstairs windows, waving an enthusiastic thumbs-up at the others before disappearing into the darkness. Reyes searches for Santiago on the ridge, camouflaged by shadows, and sends an empty communications alert to attract her eyes to his.

Giving her an affirmative nod, he leads everyone through the rubble and debris into the dingy saloon complete with a ransacked bar and deserted poker game on the pool table. Upon entering the cramped taverns, Reyes is quick to set his crates and bags down with a sigh of relief, immediately going to massage some feeling back into the protesting muscles. Others are fast to follow, not waiting for Santiago’s direct orders but imprinting on Reyes in her momentary absence. 

They were fast enough and luck shone down on them in the midst of misfortune, as there was no water damage to any of their technology, and everyone was mostly in high spirits with the added bonus of not turning up to base sopping wet. And while it can be counted as a blessing, it’s also a curse that there was no hostile presence in this region. That means that the hideout is likely located elsewhere, shifted since the last sting they performed years ago.

The vacancy of this valley suggests that they were way off the target, and Reyes works his jaw in thought as he considers that possibility. On impulse, he turns to McCree, presuming that the kid would have some recollection about where else his former gang may be holed up. 

Tucked in the corner by the pool table, McCree had frozen where he had set the crate atop the green fabric, staring intently at the dart board by the backdoor. As he approached him, he took the liberty to get a better angle at what was just so eye-catching on an abused dart board.

Impaled into the soft foam of the board, a picture of McCree hung by the blade of an impressive hunting knife. It speared straight through the center of the photograph, obscuring details from interpretation, but saving his face for recognition. The photograph itself has aged poorly, with yellowed borders and stains under the film’s protective screen. McCree stared at the old portrait of him with a mixture of mild surprise and dread until his commander’s voice broke through to him.

“You have any idea where your gang could be? There’s a chance that they have relocated recently and we have no intel suggesting where else they could be hiding,” Reyes says, taking the position open beside his agent, “that is, until Sergeant Oberon’s squad completes their recon.”

Pulled out of his own bone-chilling fear at the sight of the portrait stabbed through, a threat with no possibility of misinterpretation, Reyes’ words are like rum on the fire of his temper. His eyes flash with ire, and even through the cloud of rage over his rationality, he can tell Gabriel realizes his misstep.

“ _ My gang? _ ” he clenches his teeth, muscles in his temple working as he does his utmost to not raise his voice. Seething, he continues, “my gang, that’s got their death threats for me pinned up to their walls? That tried to throttle me on the way here? Some fuckin’ leader I am.”

Some of his emotions are sublimated into sarcasm, the only conduit which doesn’t involve causing a scene and entirely blowing their cover. A relative hush falls over the other agents as they’re trying to avert their eyes and turn away. Apparently adopting a similar strategy as used in child-minding, if they ignore the meltdown, the child will burn themself out and perhaps finally agree to be put down for a nap. Jesse doesn’t seem close to finished, though.

Boots clacking and spurs rattling like an angry snake against the rickety saloon floor, which is stained with a variety of mysterious substances ranging from the coppery-brown of blood splatters to the ghosts of dropped shot glasses, glass crunches underfoot as Jesse crosses the space. Harshly tugging the knife out of the board, and consequently almost ripping a hole in the flimsy wooden wall as the board nearly comes down with it, McCree snatches the picture down and looks over it again. It turns his stomach and he feels hot bile creeping up his throat.

Without a doubt, the longer they’re here, the more likely they are to strike at Jesse, quick and mean as a rattler. And thrice as deadly.

Marching over to Reyes, he thrusts the aged film into his commander’s hand. The lack of reaction in Gabe’s expression works its way under Jesse’s skin easier than anything.

“They’re still here,” he bites, hackles raised. “I’ll be a fucking fool if they aren’t. They’re waiting for me. Like I told you before, over and over.”

His sentences are stunted, getting harsher and more clipped as he leans closer to Gabriel with each punctuation. Their noses are practically touching, Jesse’s bunched in a snarl, before the cowboy simply huffs. The scent of tobacco and sick hits Gabriel’s face.

Jesse slaps the combat knife that once acted as a pin onto the ramshackle bar top and retreats to brood by one of the blown-out, boarded-over windows. What little strips of sunlight are allowed through the desiccated boards dig into McCree’s eyes.

While it hushed the room and flooded it with tension, daring anyone to speak as they silently unloaded their equipment, it did little to Reyes except irritate him and his already waning patience. He had half the mind to bite back at McCree and shut down any fire in the kid’s belly, but something nagged him into resigned silence.

Unfolding his hand, he peers at the crumpled photograph. It’s aged poorly, to say the least, if just discounting the giant stab wound in the center. McCree’s face still shone through, seemingly unphased and taunting in the threat of harm. Hair somehow more rugged than how it is now, falling into his face similarly, the McCree in the photograph smiles broadly with a lit cigar pinched between his teeth. There’s a challenging glint in his eyes, something that has never extinguished, and his trademark quirked eyebrow. Sweeping his thumb over the film’s casing, he notes how much more vibrant McCree’s freckles were with the constant canyon sun.

Sergeant Santiago had finally trailed into the saloon and had watched the two men as a silent observer. Looking up from the photograph, her eyes catch his, and her face twists into an awkward look, saying,  _ ‘that was rough.’  _ Sighing in frustration, he pinches the bridge of his nose as he shuts his eyes for a moment, if just to organize the thoughts that resulted from the sudden outburst.

He knows that McCree’s reaction needs addressed, as it possibly portrays not just an allowance for disrespect, but a potential fondness Reyes harbors towards McCree. No other agent is capable of snapping at and getting in the commander’s face, not unless they were Jesse McCree, and Reyes was painfully aware of that notion. It’s a rumor he’s quick to shut down, not just because it wasn’t true but because it’s highly taboo to view a subordinate in any other light except a professional one.

Shoulders tight and expression pulled taught, it’s clear that without intervention, he’s nearly at his breaking point. More sapient portions of his mind are well-aware he’s made a right fool of himself; for certain, he’s proven himself belligerent and unreasonable, despite his past successes for his commander, the recognition of which crushes him.

Thoughts of Reyes abandoning him here and allowing the remnants of the gang to pick him apart like vultures, to strip him to the bone and dig the marrow out, adds to his panic, and thusly the maelstrom of irritability. McCree steadies himself on a structural beam, hanging his head as if all negative sentiment would simply drip out. If he didn’t suppress the urge and leave a painful lump in his throat, his face would be hot and stained with tears.

His mind slips back to the days long before his time at Blackwatch, and even longer before he’d fled his home to run with the gang. Jesse’s planted back in his childhood home, with its cobwebs nestled in the corners he couldn’t quite reach and the third stair up from the bottom that always got him caught sneaking out by squealing like a pig at slaughter.

Back in the familiar situation of using the ratty couch as a shield as he tries to avoid his father’s wrath. Where his mother would tearfully watch, equally frightened and perhaps saying a prayer under her breath as his father swore up a storm and lobbed loose household items at McCree.

This time, however, Reyes seems to have intruded on his memory, taking place of his actual father. It’s heart-rending, hearing his revered commander launch threats and slurs at him along with the home telephone or a particularly weighty book. Eyes wide, his breath quickens and his pulse races.

The wooden floor creaks in peril as he makes his way over to McCree, steps heavy and imposing. The agent doesn’t make a visible show of acknowledgement at his presence beside him, and he’s getting fed up with the games he’s playing. Grasping his shoulder pad and forcing McCree to look at him, he’s ready to let out some of the anger that’s been building inside of him as well. 

He’s ripped from the memory at a warm hand on his shoulder, firmly turning him around. McCree’s eyes are still full of animalistic fear, mouth slightly agape. It’s Gabriel, of course. The only one ever willing to brave his tantrums.

“Kid,” Reyes grunts before he captures the full scope of McCree’s emotional break. There’s a brief moment, his eyes wild and startled without recognition like a cornered coyote in a snare as he is turned to face the commander, where Reyes believes the agent was expecting physical retaliation for the scathing words and scorn. It’s a stain on his complexion like spilled wine on a wedding night, the painstakingly unguarded fear marrying his features and crashing Reyes’ self-esteem irreparably.

There is no pleasure drawn from the fear he garners in his anger, nor is there enjoyment in watching those beneath his rank cower at his authority. Witnessing the abject fear cross his agents’ faces at his possible wrath is close to swallowing cotton; a suffocating sensation that he chokes on and can never quite push down, no matter how many years he’s been commanding. 

The angered mask over Reyes’ features cracks, and the tight pinch of his eyebrows loosens as his ill temper shifts into shielded concern. Gloved hand slackening over McCree’s shoulder armor, he falters before it drops to his bicep. As far as professionalism as a commander, he maintains a healthy distance, not quite as close as spitting range as McCree got just minutes ago.

“Jesse,” he says, quietly, a subdued murmur, “easy.” The other agents filling the saloon have averted their attentions entirely, electing to grant them some semblance of privacy. Even then, Reyes wishes there was the opportunity to go someplace else, somewhere more secluded and away from prying eyes.

Where it lays on his arm, Reyes’ padded fingers squeeze the solid muscle in a comforting gesture, crinkling and catching on the fabric of his undershirt as he pulls his hand away. The small ministration was louder than any words Reyes could have said, and it eases some of the fear from those maple eyes. It’s far from erasing the burning anger likely still roiling in McCree’s gut, but Reyes can see some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders.

“You need to realize that you’re not the only one in danger,” he says, tone firm but not angry, not anymore, “you need to put more trust in your fellow agents. We’re all in this together.” The words sit on his tongue like a dissolving pill-  _ ‘you need to put more trust in me’-  _ and he swallows it down. In the minimal light filtering through the boarded window, he can see McCree depress just so, hopefully not to reinflate with anger once more. It’s already gotten ugly, and he’d hate for it to get any uglier. 

Like waves crashing over a beach and washing away again harmlessly, Reyes’ touch waning from one of a demanding authority to that of a concerned parent draws some of the urgency out of McCree’s emotions. Like coming up for a breath of air, breaching the surface after being caught under the surf and tossed like a rag doll, Reyes doles out oxygen to his aching lungs.

Tossing its head and shifting its weight between its feet like a frightened horse, his acerbity lies anxiously in wait for another provocation. In the meantime, the “easy” that falls from the commander’s lips soothes it, quelling it if only momentarily. It settles simply for a flick of the tail before pacing its stable.

Jesse glances down at the point of contact between he and his commander, almost incredulous that Gabriel is willing to try and tame his infamous temper so soon after an outburst. Drawing his gaze up from anywhere except his commander, he meets the other man’s eyes. A spark of fear still flickered in his own, but is mostly outshone by the bit of clarity that Gabe grants him.

Standing well within Reyes’ range still sets him on edge, his eyelashes flutter in preparation for impact with each minute movement form his commander. Despite being so well-acquainted with Gabe in- and outside of sparring, he’s still not confident in being able to read Reyes’ intent to swat at him or throw a hook into his jaw.

Simultaneously, if contradictorily, he both flinches away and yearns for the warmth of Reyes’ hand against his arm as the commander draws away from him once more. Undoubtedly, he spots the recoil in Jesse’s demeanor as the younger man expects to be struck. McCree vainly attempts to swallow the lump in his throat.

Curiously, it’s not the initiation of contact that draws a physical reaction from McCree, but the withdrawal of it, like peeling a bandage off an open wound. Reyes searches his eyes for an answer, trying to pin down a reason as to why the kid was so jumpy, but he comes up with nothing solid. The fear has since receded into the sparse flecks of hazel and honey that decorate his brown eyes, although flickering weakly like a flame in the wind, in and out of existence, as the light streaming through the window catches in his face.

It rubbed the commander each wrong way, the hesitation of his agent in the face of his anger, the recoil and trepidation in his words. It irritates and makes his skin crawl. All too well, he understands that respect cannot be garnered through violence and cruel obedience. Psychologically, it doesn’t breed any creature of respect, but of fear and learned helplessness. In time, there is a spirit that will meet the hand that strikes it with fire in their eyes and ire in their blood, and as a dog rises against its owner, the agent will rebel against the commander.

Fear doesn’t replace respect, and does little in the ways of trust in the line of work they’ve found themselves in. If one fears their leader's hand, how are they to know they can trust them to protect them from the hands of others?

Reyes has never once struck his agents outside of sparring lessons, and even then, his punches are pulled the moment he spots any give in their movements. The reason behind Jesse’s apprehension is something he can’t attribute to his actions, and remains a mystery; another mystery on top of seemingly thousands that this kid keeps inside of him.

As much as he hates to think it, he’d almost prefer to take his licks and get it over with, rather than remaining hypervigilant over what may or may not come. Typically, once his father had sufficiently vented some of his anger in the form of a blossoming black eye or a hairline-fractured joint that would inevitably be neglected, he’d have exhausted himself and gone off to drink himself to sleep. It would give Jesse ample time to nurse his wounds without fear of another attack.

Reyes—he just stands there, a warmth behind his eyes despite his standoffish expression. It’s almost a taunt to Jesse, but he doesn’t put it to words. His kindness and unwavering patience unnerves him to his very core.

Upon realizing that Reyes is simply trying to breathe reassurance into him, and that the hit would never come, he loses the tension pinning him back like a dried insect. Their eye contact draws on for what is almost certainly far too long, but Jesse is thankful that Reyes is so gracious as to allow him a period to regain his composure.

Perhaps a bit blankly, the cowboy watches Reyes for another beat before finally accepting the subtext.

“I trust you,” he states softly, damn near inaudibly.

Exhaling softly through his nose, Reyes releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The whispered confession is shade under the scorching sun, a momentary reprieve that he soaks up like a sun-bleached plant. He, too, provides the same shade that off-sets a sunburn, his body shielding McCree from the eyes of the room.

That drive to protect McCree nags at his conscience, and Reyes is beginning to think it’s going to lead to his downfall. It stunted any response when the agent stalked towards him with fire under his feet and a knife firmly clenched in his fist. It didn’t process until the combat knife was slammed down that McCree was even wielding a deadly weapon, as the kid simply doesn’t strike him as a  _ threat. _ Not even back when Deadlock blood still coursed through his veins did Reyes handle the man as anything other than his agent, equal to all the others.

Reyes knows that, had any other agent stepped to him with a deadly weapon in their hands, intending to use it or not, it wouldn’t have taken a second to disable and incapacitate them. Jesse simply didn’t raise any alarms with his spitting fury and snarl. It was a fangless rattle in Reyes’ ears, and he didn’t tread on it.

“We should head back,” Reyes says, more voicing his own thoughts than speaking to McCree directly. Turning away but still maintaining his eye contact with the cowboy, if for just another moment too much, he says, “I’m going to speak with Sergeant Santiago, meet me by the doors.”

Leaving McCree to regain his composure by the window like a wilted plant, he spots Santiago digging through the stockpile of equipment kits and crates. Engrossed in the task, committed to not paying the two any mind, she blinks in surprise at his sudden appearance before her. Straightening to greet him, she dusts off her hands as her eyes dart from the commander to the cowboy and back.

“That was quick,” she says, eyebrow raised with suspicion, “everything alright?”

“Yes,” he replies gruffly, making it clear that he’s not going to humor the conversation any further, “McCree and I are about to head back. Should we encounter any hostiles, for the sake of distance, Oberon will be the first to know.”

Santiago nods curtly, a little irked that Reyes would shut her off like that, although not surprised that he did. She’s always considered that man to have a tight seal over his lips, not one to speak on his or his agents’ business unless it were dire. Something she both greatly respects about the man and detests.

“Roger that, boss man,” she says, flashing a finger gun in his direction before turning back to her equipment haul, “see you on the other side.”

Rolling his eyes, Reyes turns his back to her, “Grow up, Sergeant Santiago.” Both of them are at ease with the quip, and Santiago smiles down into her bag. 

Reaching the door, McCree was already waiting for him, hat tucked low on his head and red poncho pulled up to obscure his face. Catching the movement of his approaching commander in his peripheral, he looks up and nods like a well-trained dog, waiting for an order. Instead of one, Reyes just nods back him, allowing him to take the lead instead of retracing their steps himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of the story! Largely just groundwork and the like, a little disjointed as it was originally a roleplay- and ending on a weird note, as we wanted to cut the first act in half to allow us more time to write more content for the future updates. 
> 
> Will update next Thursday, let us know what you think and any ideas you may have, we appreciate all sorts of feedback!
> 
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)  
> [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)


	2. Dry Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said we’re both degenerates, but—“ McCree pulls the cigar from his lips again, and rests his hand against the other man’s bicep, “—I’m not like you. I’m not what you think.”
> 
> “I don’t know what I think.” The back and forth struggle, the mismatch and disconnect between McCree’s lips and the words that spill from them, is a battle with more adversaries than Reyes thought Jesse was fighting.

Once out in the sunlight again, the rain having entirely subsided and seeming to take a reprieve along with McCree’s anger, the earth beneath their feet began to boil. Locked in its constant battle with the clouds, the sun reclaims its throne in the sky and continues to beat down, causing waves of heat to ripple and rise out from the rocky canyon floor. Jesse almost pities his commander’s choice in wardrobe.

Obscuring his face and arms from the radiation helps keep said radiation from cooking Jesse like a flank steak, and also offers an excuse for him to hide his uneasy expression from the commander. While no longer explicitly full of rage or fear, an odd feeling settled in his stomach, one which inevitably bleeds onto his face and shatters the illusion of resigned impassivity. He might be supernaturally good at poker, with his natural gift of bluffing and hankering for trash talking, but his facial tells tend to be his weak point.

As much as he might pretend he’s stoic and aloof, truthfully Jesse’s face betrays everything, positive or negative. He draws his shawl up further, in hopes that Reyes might overlook the quirk in his lips in his cursory glances towards the boy. Never one to bleed his cards so soon, he tries to steel his gaze in an attempt to hold them closer to his chest.

He tries to allow the commander’s hunch that the gang had mostly cleared out to sink in. After a declaration of trust such as the one that had passed his lips back in the saloon, he’d seem a fool to disregard his leader’s intuition right out of the gate. Even so, his supposed convincing himself did nothing to quell the paranoid feeling of eyes boring into his back from above, dotting the canyon walls and lying in wait to constrict the life from the pair of them. He doesn’t dare turn around, lest he see laser sights setting him alight like a garish decoration.

Jesse meanderingly merges over, trying not to make it so obvious that he was seeking shelter under Reyes’ wing. He camouflages it with the guise of initiating conversation without having to raise his voice above a murmur.

Always one to default to humor, he speaks up, if only slightly.

“The sunset will cool all this off again. Got a feeling you understand why you don’t see any  _ vaqueros  _ in black,” he attempts to pull a playful lilt to his voice. It’s a feeble extension of an olive branch, given the scale of his previous breakdown, but it’s better than silently watching the commander stew in his charcoal-colored prison. The stern look he receives for the verbal comment is all the reprimandation he gets, as McCree knows full well how easily the wind can steal his voice and carry it for miles on a good day. Realizing that Reyes isn’t going to bite at him nor scuff the hat off his head, McCree settles into his skin more comfortably.

They walk in tandem as they approach the diner again, Jesse almost lost in thought as he watches their shadows, and then the sky, and then idly identifies any desert plant they walk by to keep his mind off of the persistent threat looming overhead—literally—and Reyes scanning each ledge and perch jutting out of the stone walls for any potential scout or sniper.

The extension of concern masked by McCree’s typical playfulness is well-received- Reyes  wears a soft glare he throws the cowboy rather than his typical cold gaze , catching him peek out from underneath his wide-brimmed hat to catch any reaction. In his eyes, McCree’s prior demeanor has pulled a total one-eighty-- from snapping, wild, and cornered like a beat dog to teasing and keen like a young pup. He even falls into step at his flank, fitting into the shadow cast by Reyes’ form. He can virtually see the tail start to wag as  he grants Jesse the small victory of a scowl and nothing worse before the agent’s eyes turn to regard the world around them with a nostalgic curiosity. 

Truth be told, the rising heat does little to bother him. While Reyes himself was a native of Mexico, he resided in regions with more temperate weather conditions. His home town’s meteorology is a far cry from this, what he presumed to be McCree’s original stomping grounds, with more precipitation and lesser extremes. 

Had he been thrust into this arid climate before he enlisted in the military, he wouldn’t be fairing it very well. Fortunately, even with the sudden exposure to extreme climates such icy tundras and towns boiling blacktop, he didn’t have to bear the human experience of braving the bone-deep cold and skin-crawling heat for long. Selected as a human guinea pig, he allowed the US government to genetically modify his very DNA through experimental medication and injections.

It was far from pleasant, with long hours spent hunched over the dorm room toilet as his body fought the physical changes to psychotic breaks from the side effects, but there was good to go with the bad. One being his improved homeostasis and temperature regulation- the heat didn’t affect him quite like it hits others.

His days in the SEP regime are hardly discussed, and it’d have to wait until they were in the sanctuary of the grease bucket diner to evade risk of his heavy voice carrying, so he settles on tossing the kid a look conveying a general denial of his concern. It’s unwise to continue trying to strike up conversation, even if it truly were to melt the ice that formed between them like a fine, slippery sheet. The attempt, in his words and his stride falling in line with his, almost hip to hip, speaks volumes as is, and Reyes doesn’t deem it necessary to keep pushing it even if he is known to hold grudges close to his chest and exact appropriate revenge when the time was just right.

Once again, Jesse McCree finds himself another loophole in Reyes, singling himself out in the entire Blackwatch division.

As much as Reyes shuts down the conversations and rumors, as much as he stifles his own thoughts and feelings, he isn’t wholly blind to his faults: he knows that Jesse has managed to worm under his skin like a bruising apple and dig into his very core. A soft spot has formed in his demeanor in regards to McCree and he’s let it get this far- allowing the outbursts, the disrespect and doubt, and in the face of it, doling out endless patience and understanding, not discipline. It never crosses the line of playing favorites, but it doubles as a sore spot as well. 

It is highly taboo for a commanding officer of any rank to perceive a subordinate in any other light other than professional for the moral reasons of power imbalance and coercion. It’s not as though Reyes saw McCree as anything other than his agent- there was just a deeper connection between the two of them that he cannot create between him and his other agents. Not even Sergeant Santiago, who was thrust into Commander Reyes’ personal strike team from the get-go, green and unsure as Oberon, can hold a candle to what Reyes and McCree have.

For Reyes, he sums it up concisely and pushes it to the back of his mind: McCree is more of an estranged son he struggles to understand above all else. How he views all of his agents has never changed, seeing each and every single one of them deserving of equal respect and the same treatment as the next- the Blackwatch division more of a family unit than a company. Each one has their story, and while it’s hard to remember all of them and keep the faces straight with the names, it’s illogical to say that some won’t stick out.

McCree is just… different. It may be the unique connection of their specific story, pulling the scraggly kid from a degenerative gang versus enlisting at his own discretion, or the collective experiences of sharing so many mission stories together. The strong drive to shield the young agent from danger only heightened in recent times, he knows that he’s always looked to the man for a stroke of humor on a bad day or for silent company on the worse ones in the HQ’s bar. Whatever goes in his head, he seems to appreciate Reyes’ silent company where no one else does, the absence of small talk unnerving and deterring many from trying to get in close. Even Sergeant Santiago shies away from those heavy silences, trying to fill them with meaningless blather that grinds his gears.

Not reaching out for another attempt at conversation, the remainder of their walk remains quiet aside from the sharp singing of the raptors searching for their bedtime meals, the encroaching symphony of crickets, the distant song of coyote calls, and Reyes’ thoughts. The sun that was once so elusive has already begun to disappear from sight again. Following in its wake is a tiger-striped sky of red and purple, the dispersing clouds interlocking fingers before pulling apart like a heartbroken goodbye, until the next time the desert’s eyes open up and weep. It brings on the barest cold front, just a handful degrees cooler than what the threatening high of the day has been. He can figure that some of his agents are turning into puddles, waiting around in the diner for Reyes and McCree to return, even if he isn’t affected himself.

“I think we should stay just one more night,” Jesse breaks the silence again, and with the way Reyes’ gear shifts against itself, he can tell he startled the other man out of his focus. Gabriel’s extensive training in maintaining utmost silence eliminated any other possibility. “For now at least,” he attempts to soothe, “We can’t be sure if they’re here or not yet.”

As the duo neared the diner, McCree speaks up once more, this time effectively jolting Reyes from his extensive thoughts. It takes him just shy of a couple moments to process and reply just a short nod, acknowledging and accepting McCree’s words before something catches like a jagged nail sweeping satin fabric, “I don’t think anyone will mind another day here, just didn’t think you would want to extend your visit.” His words are shallow, not laden with hidden motives deep within his inflection and diction- Reyes puts a great deal of stock in his agents’ intuition, not one to ignore possible warning signs or write them off as paranoia. 

With a quick check with Captain Fletcher, announcing their presence before they enter, Reyes holds the door open for McCree, the bell above the door chiming loudly in the lively night. It takes all of two seconds of entering the restaurant before Fletcher is pinning Jesse down like a helpless insect, being poked and prodded by the curious kid.

Scanning the dining room once-over, he decides that everything is where it should be, and he starts to hunt for a decent spot to hunker down for the night. With booths scattering the walls by the windows, he sees them as perfect little cubby holes for the agents’ sleeping rolls and personal items, although at the forefront of the restaurant. With McCree accompanying them tonight, he settles on the side of caution, not taking any risks at exposing Jesse’s presence by having him sleeping under the windows.

The bar, stained and decorated with hardened trails of grease, serves as a perfect cover. Staring at the tilework of the floor beneath the coffee machines for several moments, Reyes also grabs his own sleeping roll as well as McCree’s before hopping the counter.

McCree flashes an expression of helplessness at Reyes, knowing that once Fletcher had gotten comfortable with someone, it could be hard to make him stop talking again. Particularly when he’s so cooped up, and without Santiago for company, he’s willing to corner just about anyone for a scrap of conversation. Gabriel is just lucky that his expression comes across as harboring preoccupation, deterring Fletcher from singling him out.

“You two got through alright?” he asks, his interested smile crinkling the corners of his eyes a bit. Fletcher’s well aware of Jesse’s attitude upon exiting the drop ship, and as such, is watching the cowboy’s expression closely, searching for any sign of exasperation. As much as he could prattle on, he’s still in-tune with others’ thoughts and feelings. For whatever reason, McCree seemed somewhat more relaxed than when they first landed. “Santiago is doing well?”

“Fine,” Jesse says, answering both questions at once and not elaborating a bit. The rudeness in his tone digs under his own skin, making his stomach twist with guilt. He rubs at his neck absently, still sore from where the goon had thrown him to the ground and tried to strangle the life out of him. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and Fletcher unwaveringly accepts it.

“We’ll be done here soon enough,” he states, the implication being that McCree wouldn’t have to squirm under the discomfort of returning to this particular desert for much longer. “I know what it’s like to be forced back somewhere you don’t want to go.”

Fletcher nods, mostly to himself, and a warmer smile replaces the previous one. He throws his head over his shoulder, partially to take inventory of his agents, who are now spread out playing poker or sharing stories over cigarettes, and partially to gauge how low the sun has dipped below the horizon of the gulch. It would only be a few minutes before the brightest stars began to grace the sky with their presence. For now, the entire landscape is dyed blue, the way that only dusk or dawn seems to be able to manage.

Running the backs of his fingers against his facial hair in thought, as if running calculations in his head, Fletcher’s expression shifts to one of focus. Turning back to Jesse, he seems to have figured out precisely what he was trying to, and he looks about as excitable as a child on Christmas morning.

“We’ll be able to see the Milky Way from here. It gets so dark at night, for miles around, so there’s no light pollution. You rarely get something like this in America, with how industrialized it is,” he explains hurriedly, as if racing with his own thoughts and competing with them for air time.

Fletcher motions Jesse over to a vacant booth, one which luckily had the patch of awning outside ripped off, seemingly years ago the way the band of rust had scabbed over the disconnect. The leather squeals in protest as they each settle their weight opposite each other.

“Not much to look at now, but it will be. I guess I’m preaching to the choir though, since you used to sleep out under this sky. I envy it a little,” he says. Jesse stays silent, soaking up the socialization without returning words. A few words of dissent lay at the back of his throat, but objectively Fletcher is correct; without any sort of entanglement with the gang, solely focusing on the blanket of stars and the silent company of the desert, it is an almost enviable setup. Not many are able to camp out so far from civilization, no strings attached and with minimal obligations.

McCree gave a small nod, indicating that his interest is unwavering.

“You have to be in awe. The native people that lived here before this highway was paved, before settlers even dreamt of coming this far west. They saw this great blizzard of the universe above them, and they wove all of these stories about how they came to be. What great being hung each point of light in the sky,” he rambles. His eyes are glazed over with wonder, clearly endeared with the topic to which he had previously devoted his civilian life to. “It’s a statement on humanity, I think. No matter whether two cultures were neighbors or across the ocean from each other, each ancient people thought that the night sky was a part of something bigger than themselves.”

It piques McCree’s interest, somewhat, when Fletcher speaks of the original population of the area. He recalls his mother comparing him to a mutt of sorts, but among the most prominent components of his blood was that of indigenous Americans. All of his life, it was a goal of his to learn more about his background, but given that the rickety library a few miles from his house only held dusty old magazines from the ‘20s and an almost comical variety of bibles, he wasn’t going to learn much, apart from how to tell the difference between a ‘King James Bible’ and a ‘New King James Bible.’

Each of them so engrossed in the conversation, neither of them notices when Reyes approaches the table; rather than the click-thump of his heavy boots on the floor, it’s almost as if he materializes out of thin air. Fletcher, leaning back in his seat after pointing out one of the constellations visible from the thin slice of the night sky they’re able to see from the confines of the diner, startles slightly when he realizes the commander was at the head of the table.

“Sir. How are you doing?” he asks, sliding over just a touch on the off-chance Reyes wants to join.

“Just fine,” is all Reyes has to offer, voice devoid of color. His face is set as a strict neutral, both of which don’t phase Captain Fletcher at all. He’s one of the select few that don’t seem to mind the constant flatline of his tone or his resting bitch face, as he’s heard his agents lament behind his back.

The Captain turns those friendly eyes upon him, and he finds himself relaxing even with his arms braced across his chest. There is a disarming effect to him, in how nothing seems to sink beneath his skin and how he doesn’t shy away from silent company, content to fill the void himself. 

Archaeoastronomy, Reyes can recall correctly, was the focal point of Fletcher’s studies, dedicating most of his adult life to his field. It’s a niche topic and isn’t necessarily his cup of tea, but it’s such an undiscussed subject that every bit of information is new. It’s like traveling to a place he’s never been to before and being able to appreciate the culturally significant cuisine for the differences and the novelty of it, even if he still prefers his own. 

While content to let Fletcher continue his conversation-turned-lecture and to wait his turn, seeing as McCree’s earlier expression of resigned helplessness has since morphed into one of avid curiosity, the pair had noticed his presence. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he starts, dipping his head just the slightest bit towards Fletcher as a sign of courtesy, “so I’ll be quick. You and your agents can opt to sleep anywhere, but I think that utilizing the space beneath the booths would be the smartest move. The tables and seats should hide you from the windows and the doors.”

The young captain takes just a moment to mull over the suggestion before he nods, accepting his proposition. 

“I’ll use the space behind the counter- McCree will be with me tonight,” Reyes continues, shifting his gaze over to Jesse in conjunction with his words before he continues his easy eye-contact with Fletcher, “the counter offers the same visual obstruction, and this way, we won’t have people sleeping on top of each other.”

Then, after a moment of thinking, his gazes flickers over to McCree, who has peeled himself away from the window sill to listen. Underneath the layers of stoicism, there is something else creeping out onto the tip of his tongue that he swallows down;  _ except for the two of us.  _ There is enough trained restraint to keep the dry humor down, as he can already anticipate the implied statement digging under McCree’s irritated skin like barbs.

“That’s all,” he settles on, easing his weight on his heels as he prepares to head back over to the counter. With no comments from the duo, he takes his leave, boots clicking against the tile like horse shoes as he takes his place by the counter. 

Fletcher watches on, lightly amused at the tough facade that Gabe so loved to wear. He knows that there’s no way someone could truly be so aloof naturally, and that fact rears its ugly head each time Jesse has an outburst or ignores a direct order straight from Reyes’ mouth. He sees a relationship between a wild stallion and a determined horsebreaker, more than the relationship between an authority and a dutiful agent.

After a moment, he turns to look back at McCree, blinking to allow a pause before he returns to his lecture, having found his foothold again.

For a moment, Reyes considers sitting on one of the various stools as the other agents have, but upon further inspection, he decides he doesn’t mind standing in comparison to the torn apart and stained red pleather. 

While the day’s events are still fresh in his mind, he opts to kill his time by himself, jotting notes down in his tablet. In case things went awry, he wants a trail to follow back on to contemplate the errors on their part, should any occur. At the moment, he believes that they have done the most that they can to swing them into the direction of a positive outcome, even though they started the mission with a couple of casualties already. It’s something that he’s been attempting to avoid, as hard as it can be in their division, but there are times where it’s inevitable.

Sighing through his nose as his hand, gripping the hard-light pen stills over the digital paper. He knows that McCree is heavily opposed to unnecessary death, as anyone should be. Even with years of dirty operative work and blood on his hands, the kid has never lost that perspective. The way he sees everyone as having their own story and not as another combatant could likely spell the agent’s downfall, and while Reyes wants to respect the strong moral compass, the grizzled part of him wishes he would push through that mental barrier already and come to terms with the reality of their work.

Sometimes, he swings the other way- having been the one pushing for Antonio’s death in the first place before the Rialto mission plans were even solidified. In the end, he got his wish, but Reyes found that it didn’t sit well with McCree; the anger in his eyes and the venom on his tongue as he snapped at his commander through waves of Talon grunts and elites. 

The kid is a mystery that Reyes would be ordinarily resigned to accept, but as an untouched book on the highest shelf, something urges him to open those pages and figure out what exactly made him tick- what provokes his anger, what gets him to crack that wide, toothy smile, what makes him shudder himself off from the world, everything that has made him the way he is.

Disengaging the false pen, he shuts the tablet off, finding that the longer he stared at the scrawl he’s put at the bottom of his mission sketch the more distracted he became. For once, he searches for a scrap of human interaction to dull the urge to glance in McCree’s direction, and that manifests in contacting Santiago and badgering her for any updates.

The moon has risen nearly to its apex by the time Jesse can hardly keep his eyes open, fighting against nodding off each time he blinks. It’s not that the subject matter bores him; he wants nothing more than to learn more about whatever Fletcher has to say, but the events of the day are catching up to him—particularly the toll the turbulence of his emotions has taken on him.

“You should sleep,” the captain says fondly, after allowing several seconds for McCree to rest his eyes with his head propped against the window they had been using to stargaze through. It causes confusion, plainly, given the pinch in the cowboy’s brow and the way he not-so-subtly tries to glance around to regain his bearings. If the captain were attracted to men, he would see why someone would find his sleepy demeanor endearing.

Fletcher’s eyes flick to Reyes once more, but see that the man is deeply engrossed in conversation, likely with Oberon or Santiago. He allows the thought to leave his head as soon as it enters. Reyes is nothing if not mostly by-the-book, knowing when to break rules and when to abide by them. The tension between he and McCree is tangible, but he expects the Commander to entirely neglect advances either way, like an unwanted second child, in favor of avoiding punishment for suspected conflicts of interest.

“I’ll talk your ear off anytime. You can’t catch up on missed sleep,” he says. Fletcher peels himself from the booth, a mask of faint disgust laying over his features when he literally has to peel himself away, before rising to his feet and offering a hand to help Jesse up as well. McCree waves it off and pushes himself out of the booth.

While Fletcher bids him good night in order to set up his own sleeping arrangements and ensure his agents’ are in order as well, McCree rounds the counter to scope out the sleeping setup that Reyes had set up.

Their two bedrolls are practically flush with each other, with scarcely three inches between them given the tight boundaries of the bar top constricting their useable space somewhat. Realistically, he doesn’t mind; being so close to one of the best-trained individuals of the group certainly improves his survivability should something happen in the middle of the night.

As he kneels down to begin shedding some of his armor, he’s met face-to-face with the ancient coffee maker, pot still full of turbid river water, as far as he was concerned. His nose scrunched in disgust at the memory of the swill they served here. Given the state of the rest of the settlement, he wouldn’t be shocked if it came out that the diner was simply a drug or weapons front, or something.

Bidding Santagio a peaceful night, Reyes ends the call with a heavy sigh. It’s a personal tradition, such as how some folk always say  _ I love you  _ or  _ drive safe  _ to their coworkers, their friends, their family-  _ Have a peaceful night  _ is a prayer, a projection of paranoia, and an insurance of fellowship all wrapped into one.

McCree’s ears perk as he hears the telltale tone of an ended call, and he shifts on his knees to peer at Reyes over the counter. “Everything alright?”

He’s worked his way down his torso to remove armor, hands deft with practice, by the time Gabriel actually supplies an answer, probably weighing whether or not it was any of Jesse’s business what he was talking about.

By all means, Jesse is entirely unimposing without the added bulk of his armor, and that effect is intensified by his half-lidded eyes and the faint eye bags forming. Save for the rest of the armor still on him, and the black military supply top clinging to whatever lean muscle he does have, he looks like a farm boy. Were Reyes a weaker man, he’d probably be unable to avoid vocalizing his fondness when McCree rubs at his eyes tiredly.

The shift in the corner of Reyes’ eye caught his attention, figuring that the agents were beginning to grow drowsy and were most likely going to want silence to fall asleep to rather than someone else’s conversation. The direction that his and Santiago’s phone call has steered was more into a friendly banter, nothing of any true substance or any importance.

At the gentle voice behind him, thickened into a heavy, southern drawl with drowsiness, Reyes turns. He finds McCree already making himself at home on his respective bedroll, hands practiced but encumbered with exhaustion as they work at the various straps and clips attaching his armor to his body. After a moment of battling his gear, Jesse slouches in resigned defeat, letting the armor adorning his legs win the fight as he brings a fist up to scrub his eye.

Reyes blinks, almost disorientated by the abrupt bloom of warmth in his chest. McCree, his trained soldier, was further removed from the bravado facade he typically affixes on his outward personality than Gabriel’s ever seen him. That may just be because there hasn’t been many occasions where Reyes has had to share such close quarters with him, likely fewer instances than fingers on both hands. Still, the sudden reversion to such a docile state, eyes half-lidded with sleep weighing them down and body totally at ease accentuating the frame still bearing his boyish qualities of lean muscle and youthful build, ushers forth what Reyes believes to be a paternal joy. 

The notion that there is enough trust between them that McCree drops the act of cocksure American soldier- his accent strengthening the more exhaustion plagues him, the ease in his posture outside of his intimidating fortress of metal- delights him, like gaining the trust of a stray dog with scraps of food and a constant, reassuring presence. 

Slipping over the bar top and behind the ramshackle counter, he shuffles his tablet and notes into one hand as he slides over. Crouching down and working his bag open, he neatly puts everything back from whence it came before he nudges the pack off to the side. 

“Yes,” is all Reyes supplies after a moment of processing, although he doesn’t elaborate any further. Mind catching on the feeling, half of his consciousness ribs him for feeling old in comparison to his agent, and the other half chastises him for the burst of fondness that came with it. Even at the mental pushback of feeling any form of fondness towards the young man, he can’t contain the smirk that escapes out from under his practiced mask nor the words that fall off his tongue.

“Ready to hit the hay, farmboy?” he says teasingly. The words are meant only for Jesse’s ears, as they are more murmured than anything else. He glances at McCree just beside him to make sure that he caught the humor in his voice and didn’t, god forbid, take it the wrong way- what he gets is Jesse’s best attempt at an eyeroll in his bleary state.

He almost misses the response, so muddled between his southern drawl and tiredness that it’s nearly inaudible, as he settles into his own bedroll. Unlike McCree, Reyes doesn’t bother with removing any of his armor, the extra layer more of a second skin he’s grown accustomed to than any sort of hindrance. Mindful of the scant amount of space between them, he stretches out on his back with a sigh of relief, just happy to be off his feet for the first time all day, and tucks his arms across his chest to minimize the space he takes up. It’s by no means necessary, as Jesse doesn’t need any space past his own bedroll, but Reyes does it out of consideration of the man he’s going to be sleeping beside for who knows how many nights.

“No one says that,” Jesse yawns. Even so, the pet name in conjunction with rarely-heard and highly sought-after playful lilt in Reyes’ voice brings rise to a blush in his cheeks. He could play off the extra heat from the blood rush as his soaking in the sliver of sun they were met with earlier that afternoon, but instead he opts not to mention it as he wrests his legs from the armor with the last scrap of energy he’s got left.

With a sigh and a few crackling joints as his muscles work free from the confines of his armor, he settles down against his bedroll. Part of him curses it for being so cheaply made, with rough canvas and sparse insulation, and part of him is thankful, considering the sleeping configuration.

The rest of the room had grown quiet as the other agents dispersed, hunkering down under their selected booths and getting as comfortable as possible on the grease bucket floor. Reyes himself, pillowing his head on his arm and tucking his other hand close to his chest, positioned himself to face the core of the restaurant. McCree had mimicked him, whether or not for the security of being able to respond to threats without the shuffling of the nylon sleeping bags or for his own comfort.

Already, he could feel heat sloughing off of Reyes, but it is a pleasant heat, akin to settling into a hot car during the summer. It’s not unbearably hot just yet, but a cold weather-issue bedroll would be enough to tip him over the edge into unabashed perspiration.

The moment Reyes had settled in behind McCree’s body, he could feel the heat radiating off of him. Compared to his own body, artificially hotter through the SEP modifications, Jesse started to rival it within minutes of them laying in silence. Typically, Reyes was content to be the one that always seemed feverish, even though he hasn’t gotten sick in almost two decades. So this was exceedingly odd, considering that McCree is a creature of the heat, body naturally level and almost chilled to the touch. Now, though, he felt hotter than the air rising off the desert sands, and shuddering like the sandwinders underneath.

For reasons beyond him, considering his exhaustion, McCree hyper-focuses on the way he could feel Gabriel’s breath puff against the back of his neck, rustling the smaller hairs against the sensitive skin and only garnering even more of McCree’s attention in the process. And he finds himself not wanting to pull away or shift around to avoid it.

Physically shuddering, he tries to eject the train of thought from his mind through force. Not only are the thoughts inevitable to come further on down the line not appropriate to have about his commander, they’re not appropriate to have about other men at all. If his father were there, he’d probably have him bloodied and bruised for the mere approach towards those types of sinful thoughts.

To say that McCree hadn’t fantasized about being in such tight quarters with another man would be a lie, but it would also be a lie to say that his father hadn’t caught on fairly early and did his utmost to steer Jesse away from eternal damnation. And Jesse be damned if he didn’t follow his father’s rules about dating and sex to a T after very few incidents, lest his prospective partner be met with the business end of a shotgun.

The shivering, infrequent but present from the bedroll just inches in front of him, was the most telling sign. Mulling it over in his head, Reyes considers the possibilities of McCree falling ill the first day on the ground; it had rained heavily, which they then trudged through, and the desert has since become a foreign environment to his immune system once more. It’s unlucky that McCree has likely gotten sick so soon and in such a location that has no access to a medical center of any sort.

When McCree curls in on himself just the slightest bit against another shudder, Reyes makes an executive decision. Edging forward the three inches to bridge where their bedrolls floated apart like islands, he gets close. Without warning, he gently slides his hand up and under Jesse’s arm, bracing against his body at the border of his stomach and rib cage. In the same, fluid motion, Reyes shifts the younger man against his chest where Gabe seems to burn the hottest, as if challenging McCree’s heat. Immediately, at the abrupt introduction of Reyes’ hand, McCree tenses against him in what he can only guess to be some variation of surprise.

McCree’s thoughts, rapidly spiraling from lazy interest in Reyes to depths of despair from thinking about his biological father, are interrupted by a broad arm easily draping itself over his side and stomach and the warm weight of the other man pressed to his back.

It startles the thoughts into submission, and he can feel his heart skip a beat as Reyes’ gruff voice soothes, “easy,” in his ear.

As renowned and honorable as his commander is, even he doesn’t shy away from such potentially immoral behavior, and that drops a stone of anxiety in his stomach. The worry is laved over somewhat by the continued heat baking into his sore muscles—particularly his knees, protesting from all the walking—but it still picks at his mind until Reyes shifts from behind to more fully cradle him.

It’s as if his higher thoughts are overridden by more baser ones, ones of comfort and safety. The soothing reassurance that seems to spread out like a blanket over Jesse’s body, he slowly decompresses and lets his commander press their body heats together. His arm settles there, in the comfortable divet of McCree’s waist, and his fingers lazily skims the crumpled fabric of his button-up as he relaxes. Using the relative size difference between the two to his advantage, Reyes makes sure that McCree is flush to his chest while he keeps his head back and propped in the cushion of his arm while his lower half stays stubbornly on his own bedroll, even as now most of him is on the floor.

A voice of doubt springs up in his mind, somewhere hidden in the back amongst all the others screaming at him for this, although it is shouted down by a stronger one as Jesse shudders once more. In the deafening silence of the sleeping diner, he captures his innocence in the way he prises the younger man close. Reyes has learned from past experience, where options were limited and time was escaping them, that his rampant body heat is not only useful for him, but for others as well.

There have been circumstances that have contradicted his personal distaste of physical contact and his drive to do everything in his capacity to protect his agents. Up in the Siberian wilderness, he’s allowed his unit to curl against his flanks and press into his sternum and spine, vying for that warmth he seems to generate out of thin air, and in the twisting jungles of South America, he’s bundled fevered agents against his chest as he’s coaxed the sickness out of them in bursts of disturbed sleep- learning that his body heat is damn effective in getting people to sweat.

It’s not something Reyes readily expresses, because there are a handful of agents that will do anything to sidle up to him, but it’s something that he will do in a pinch. As it stands, if Jesse were to start developing a fever while stranded in the desert on a mission estimated to take a week, it puts them in a bad spot; the sickness will knock him out and disorientate him with the battle between his own heat and the sun’s, meaning his presence will then become a moot point and all the drama and tension would be for nothing.

With the introduction of more warmth, directed into his very core, McCree’s shuddering almost picks up in frequency. The nylon bedrolls beneath them crinkle with each wave that wracks the other’s body, louder than gunfire in the relative silence of the gentle breeze on the windowpanes and collective snores of their squadmates. Reyes worries the inside of his cheek, contemplating in the brief pause between his flinches before he shifts again. This time, he stitches closed the space between, pulling the thread taut and pulling McCree flush his own body.

The reaction is immediate, that uncertain tense where McCree’s person stiffens against the change. Now, without a buffer between them, Gabriel lets his head fall loosely against McCree’s shoulder as he hums out his explanation, “you’re warm, can’t have you getting sick.” This time, the tranquilizing effect of Reyes’ voice, the deepened, rumbling authority addled with the exhaustion that's creeping in, doesn’t kick in immediately. McCree’s lays rigid against him as if he were at war with his stubborn independence, his attitude that anything life throws at him, he’ll take it on himself, and the needs of his body, exhaustion preying on his inhibitions and his sick making him vulnerable. 

Eventually, the younger man eases into Reyes’ loose hold, grip conveying leeway, offering the choice at Jesse’s discretion. He seems to accept the unwarranted help offered, as he doesn’t just relax, but he sinks against Reyes’ body. A timid movement- shoulders squaring and inching back the slightest bit into his commander's chest, who, in turn, momentarily flexes his arm in a silent sign that it’s alright, that Reyes wasn’t going to bite. It’s all the permission Jesse needs, as he then moves to make sure that there almost was no space where they weren’t touching.

Sighing, Reyes himself loses some tension that he was carrying with him all day, allowing himself the scant luxury of enjoying the company beside him. The shivering had ceased, and he could hear Jesse’s breathing even out before he even allowed himself a yawn.

As he starts to drift off, nose resting on the slightest patch of open skin where the military shirt has slipped off his neck, tickled lightly by McCree’s dusty brown locks of messy hair, Reyes finds himself psycho-analyzing his own conscience. He gets as far as humoring the idea that perhaps it was something that his id was scratching for, that perhaps his wasted youth was haunting him with the absence of a family to care for, and that’s why he’s grown so attached to his agent. The thoughts fizzle out as he gets caught on the rise and fall of McCree’s chest pinned to his own, the gentle exhales of a scratchy throat forming, and the nighttime crickets serenading them to sleep.

With the additional proximity to Reyes’ elevated temperature in conjunction with the still-warm ambient temperature of the desert, it’s less than a couple hours before McCree’s shirt winds up so sweat-soaked and uncomfortable that it rouses him even from such deep sleep.

The cowboy wrestles with it internally before finally settling that he’d rather be half-nude than fester in a swamp of his own making alongside his commander. Delicately disentangling himself from Reyes’ grip, only when he’s certain that Reyes has properly fallen into deep sleep (or has expertly feigned such) he maneuvers himself free.

In sitting up to pull his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the bar, he spots the moonlight flowing like milk over onto the checkered diner floor, enticing his rebellious streak into enjoying the unhindered evening sky. Once they return to headquarters, there’s no way he’ll have a chance like this to marvel at the stars again for months. Besides, he’d bring his six-shooter out with him; he isn’t quite so foolish as to be entirely unarmed.

A brief glance back at the sleeping form beside him assures Jesse that Gabriel’s breaths are deep and even enough that he must still be asleep, despite the fact that Reyes is indeed groggily watching him through his lashes. A quiet grunt of effort escapes McCree’s throat as he hoists himself to his feet.

Taking only the necessities—his cigar, lighter, and gun—he slips his boots on and heads toward the door. Literally tiptoeing to keep his spurs from clacking on the floor like a dog with overgrown nails, he silently thanks whoever thought to remove the infernal chime from the door before lights out.

A warm desert breeze greets him like an old friend, embracing him and kissing his cheeks as it passes through. He runs his fingers through his hair as he fills his lungs, drunk on oxygen, almost meditative for a few beats. A quiet click of the lighter later, he’s got his hand cupped over the cigar to defend it from wayward breezes and nurture the spark.

Jesse shifts his weight back. The siding of the diner creaks gently in protest, but resigns to bear the pressure without outright complaint.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the peace and a few drags from his cigar for a short moment before rustling within the diner makes him snap to reality again. While logic would state that it’d have to be an ally, given that there were only allies within the diner, his isolation and the resultant poor defense sets him on edge and overrides any strategic thought.

The hand resting on his weapon is dismissed as soon as he makes the figure out to be a particularly disgruntled Reyes coming to figure out precisely why Jesse had stepped out into some of the most insidiously hostile territory he’s set foot in within recent memory.

Not a stranger to being in trouble with Gabriel, he simply furrows his brow and prepares for the ultimate chewing-out he is liable to receive.

“Should have told me you were coming out for a smoke,” is all Reyes says, much to Jesse’s surprise. The commander is on the receiving end of a couple owlish blinks, and a pause sinks between them for a moment.

“Look, I just need to know you didn’t get kidnapped out from under my nose. It doesn’t look good on mission reports.”

A light dusting of irritation settles over Jesse’s tone unintentionally, moreso at being interrupted during the small sliver of alone time he’s been able to get than at the implication of Reyes’ presence and dry sense of humor, “I think I can hold my own.”

The presence of Reyes’ expression, ever-devoid of something that would betray his thoughts, never fails to whip Jesse into irritation. He stands a little straighter, but it adds just a pathetic amount to his stature in comparison to Gabriel.

“Not that you’d ever see that. You can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

It’s the odd phrasing that signals to Reyes that perhaps Jesse is sublimating another issue entirely into this lashing out.

“What do you mean by that?” he prods carefully, working expertly to excavate the answer without Jesse crumbling before him.

“You’re a fool. That’s what it means,” leveling his eyes with Reyes, his spurs rattle in warning with another step. At this distance, he can see a few muscles in Reyes’ arms dancing with energy, prepared to pin McCree to the floor at the first hint of intent to do harm.

“I’m a fool for taking care of you?” Reyes asks flatly, rhetorically. “You’re getting sick. Is the fever cooking your brains, too?”

He’s got an end to his patience, too, unbeknownst to Jesse.

“I’m not getting sick,” he shoots back, pressing further into the boundaries of the commander’s space, “I was shaking because— because you were  _ touching _ me.”

The few words are enough to drain the color from Gabriel’s face. An accusation of inappropriate conduct, with an unwilling male agent in particular, could easily earn him a dishonorable discharge, if not a lawsuit. Jesse hasn’t only crumbled, he is threatening to cave in and crush Reyes.

“Kid, listen, if you didn’t want to be touched—“

“That’s not what I meant,” McCree cuts in before Reyes could backpedal himself beyond the point of no return. “Because  _ you _ were touching me.”

A startled hesitation muzzles Reyes as about six years of Jesse’s incessant boundary-pushing and biting at his heels like a puppy—and in particular, that very afternoon—clicks in his mind. Jesse’s shifting from blind rage to following him doggedly back to the diner, sunlight splashing onto his face and brightening up Reyes’ mood which he himself soured not an hour before, it was a sign of the adoration the cowboy harbors for him.

Perhaps it was more than Jesse simply seeking a mentor or authority figure, even despite Gabriel’s own dismissal of that theory as senseless and self-indulgent.

The silence on Reyes’ end only throws accelerant to the fire in McCree’s belly, his eyes almost hungry for a response. Heat dances in his fingertips and his head feels full of cotton at the admission of extra-platonic feelings towards Gabriel.

“Then what do you want from me, McCree?”

Truthfully, Jesse has no clue; he almost prefers the dance of will-they, won’t-they, since it allows him an out, a perfect excuse to disengage. He does know what he wants right this moment, though, and now there is no barrier to keep him from taking it.

Cupping either side of Reyes’ jaw, Jesse surges forward and crushes their lips together. It’s nothing graceful; their noses smash together, and their teeth click, and the kiss doesn’t exactly land squarely, but it grants Jesse precisely what he desires: the commander’s hands resting uncertainly just beneath his shoulder blades, his blunt nails just barely digging into the toned flesh.

The scrape of Gabriel’s stubble against his bare cheeks is almost addictive—enough so that he’s not satisfied with one kiss, but instead swarms him for a second and a third and almost a fourth before Reyes collects his wits again and pulls away breathlessly.

Not realizing the weight of the situation when he was acting on impulse, the sight of Reyes pulling away for breath sobers him. McCree’s eyes blow wide as he retreats a half step, but Gabriel’s hands prevent him from straying too far. Reyes isn’t about to let him run off again.

“I— I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Jesse begins to babble, turning his head a full ninety degrees as a courtesy to Gabriel. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a faggot.”

The phrase is intended more to demean himself in Gabriel’s eyes, perhaps to seek some sort of reduced punishment or redemption for his rashness. To roll over and bare his belly. But when Reyes’ expression firms into one of certain distaste, it’s clear McCree has only dug himself further into a hole.

That very word slipping from between McCree’s kiss-reddened lips is like poison breathed into him. His eyes narrowing with a deathly serious edge, Reyes bores holes into the sides of the agent’s face as the crushing weight of that single word sits heavy on his tongue like a confession. 

In his mind, startled into a shuddering halt, there’s a knife that digs viciously into his core, twisting and plunging with each action, each word from Jesse. It’s all a cluttered mess like a hurricane ripped through his office and through the documents and papers everywhere in an indecipherable disaster. 

The venom laced through Jesse’s gritted teeth like a rattler’s coated fangs sinks in deep and turns Reyes’ veins to ice. “Is that what you think of me?” Reyes levels, ghastly serious in the moments after he was pinned like a hapless insect under the scorching lenses of Jesse’s fervent attentions. 

The heat from it had gone unnoticed for most likely  _ years _ as he was too tripped up on the notion of maintaining his reputation as untouchable and his name in the other commanders’ mouths clean- clean as he can keep it. Every distinct cry for attention on Jesse’s end was subconsciously misconstrued as something else, something more innocent, something curated by Reyes’ own head.

At his words, clawing the line between an honest question and a growled challenge to shreds and rendering it indistinguishable, Jesse starts to sputter, but then stops, then starts again, several times over. Akin to a fish, bumping the line, trying to snag the worm and not the hook, Reyes can’t see clear enough through the water whether this man was a bull shark or bluegill. The ravenous bites, teasing the line with quick jerks and unpredictable movements, left Reyes breathless with anxiety, while the volatility of his behavior- how it settles like scales and recedes into the depths- strengthened his green grip on the reel. 

With that calculated tug, he catches the hook in McCree and drags him to the vulnerable surface. The young man’s eyes are wide and desperate, struggling to swim through the regret and contradictory desire still shading the deep waters inside him. 

It reminds him of the well that once overflowed for him, long since siphoned out and drained of the muck and water snakes. The flash of fear across Jesse’s features as Reyes didn’t allow him but a half-foot of leash away from him was the same beast of the fear he saw earlier, and he’s beginning to suspect that it wasn’t his commander he was flinching away from. 

Rough palms grazing the tanned skin of Jesse’s ribs to his prominent hip bones, Reyes scoffs, “makes us quite a couple of degenerates, huh?” It’s his own confession as well as a push for actualization. Through bending to Jesse’s words and allowing himself to take on that label, he shoulders the weight of it himself and, possibly introduces a new perspective— the man clearly has something evil coiling through him, around his heart and squeezing his throat closed and constricting his sense of self with its venomous body. 

It can’t be that Jesse had interpreted Reyes as someone controversially old-fashioned, someone with a wall of prejudice or hate against something as simple as an attraction. While it hides in the shadows like a stalking panther at the edge of vision, it’s not invisible if they know what to look for; the sheen of interested eyes falling on a good body like hunting for a meal, the hungry glint of fangs in approval. 

Pulling and pushing like waves crashing at the shore, Reyes can feel the ebbing wave of energy underneath his fingertips. Jesse seems to operate like the ocean- riddled with secrets in the depths and dangers in the shallows, stopping anyone from getting too deep. Emotions rising like tsunamis and falling away like a kiss of sand and sky, the energy of each crescendo of feelings is unpredictable and the cooldown is just the same. The constant break of waves over Reyes’ surface chips away at the barricade of jagged rocks and cliff faces he's bordered the land of himself with, slammed with the intensity of anger and need before watching it all recede into uncertainty and hesitation. 

This time, the crushing wave is groundbreaking, shattering Reyes’ own defense before he can build it back up again. For just a moment, Jesse’s reaching waves push through the barrier of his own inhibitions, and he can’t find a bone in his body willing to push Jesse away from him and maintain a strict professional standing. The rational part of him screams louder than whipping winds and harder than the spray of sea salt, but it’s overridden with the hardest hit of it all. When it clicked that McCree wasn’t simply seeking a mentor, a role model, and paternal figure, it also illuminated the long-repressed realization that he doesn’t want to be  _ just _ any of those things- Gabriel wants to be more. 

It heats his core with equal parts burning shame at lusting over his young agent and white-hot desire to scratch that itch he’s been neglecting for far too long and to help Jesse reach his. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this with you, McCree,” Reyes says, his voice unsettlingly even, “but I’m not going to stop you.” His words curl in the gut as an invitation, open-handed and waiting ever-patiently for McCree. 

Where McCree’s hands had fallen away from Gabriel’s jaw, leaving the ghost of warmth behind, and have instead braced against his forearms as though he was rearing to rip himself away, he can feel the tendons in Reyes’ arm flutter as his fingers fan out over his hip and settle into the comfortable lines of Jesse’s waist. It’s the point that anchors them together, even as Reyes relaxes back against the support beam of the awning above them. 

The implicated allowance, whispering  _ take what you want, _ the warmth of Reyes’ hands fitting his body like they were made to hold him, and the resignation and release of power is all the further motivation McCree needs. The waves timidly reach forward to find that break in the craggy rocks along the shore, as if kissing the wound it opened up in apology. 

This time, as their lips met, it was gentler- terrifyingly so. Jesse’s lips, chapped from the desert winds and flavored with his cigar, presses to Reyes’ with the presence of a ghost. They meld together as the seconds stretch, the tension of McCree’s body melting into warmth as he steps back into Reyes’ body. His hands, careful as a lover’s, come back to cradle Reyes’ jaw in a frightening display of what can be construed as intimacy. 

It’s too soft, too polarizing, too gratifying all at once. Reyes kisses back just as delicately, as though he were trying to breathe life back into a failing body. The sickly mind breathes in Reyes’ ministrations, the scent of earth and musk and gunmetal, and swallows each lungful as though he was dying. 

Reyes goads him on, offering it all to him in that very instance, both bodies baring their burdens for the other. A sigh falls past one of their lips, but neither lay claim to the sound, as McCree crowds him against the support beam like he was trying to chase it down Reyes’ throat or breathe his desire directly into him. 

Eyes fluttering open at the briefest reprieve, a moment to collect their intertwined breaths, movement catches Reyes’ attention. He watches the shadow move in his peripheral, not alerting the other man of the presence of a third party. 

It comes in the direction of the diner, just a shuffling at one of the darkened windows. There’s not internal commotion, no ruckus being stirred. Someone was awake and watching them from the booths.

McCree doesn’t notice the drift in his commander’s attention, following along Reyes’ jaw with scattered kisses as his head turns. Too engrossed with the taste of Gabriel’s skin, too caught up committing the tang of salt and something keenly _Reyes_ to memory, he doesn’t track where his eyes land, how his eyes harden into a look of fatal warning. 

The hand settled at McCree’s hip inches down to nudge the revolver bolstered at his side, and the intent is clear enough to draw the shadow back into the dark. 

A shudder worms it’s way up Reyes’ spine at the wet press of Jesse’s tongue to his throat, and he’s quick to bring his attention back before McCree gets carried away- the skim of eager teeth and open kisses the precedent to unmistakable marks of their activities. He moves to recapture McCree’s wandering lips, only to be met with his renewed fervor. 

McCree’s spurs scuff the worn deck of the diner as he presses against Reyes as though he was trying to bind them together, the awning creaking in protest under the pressure. Where the younger man lacks in finesse, he compensated with raw energy and desire. Where Reyes gave him an inch, McCree took a mile, and Reyes is all too willing to give him more. 

In that instance, where McCree’s fingers are knocking his beanie loose, the taste of his cigar staining Reyes’ lips, and their breaths have become indecipherable, Reyes finds himself momentarily free of his own thoughts- shedding the worries of reputation and the honor of his name to just get more, to take whatever Jesse is willing to give him. 

As Jesse’s lips part in a quieted sigh, trying to find enough air in his impatience, Reyes chases the sound with his tongue, ghosting across the agent’s lower lip in a moment of impulse. The abrupt change of pace makes Jesse startle, almost, and he shifts back just so to create space. 

In the scarce light of the moon, Reyes can see the dark flush stretching over his face, the blown pupils that dance across his face in an indiscernible way, and the shine of his lips twinkling like wayward stars. Reyes meets his owlish blinks with his own look of expectancy, irritated at the sharp break.

Jesse takes a pause to draw deep from the cigar that had been neatly perched between his index and middle fingers for the duration of the encounter. His face takes on the mask of someone witnessing a grievous accident, eyes distant and hazy, lips parted in unprocessed shock. One more slow blink ensues, but he’s not certain how much time passes before he makes a motion to speak again.

The smoke curls out from his lips slowly, filling the gap between them with the almost chokingly aromatic haze. It’s nearly mocking how lazily it drifts down and disperses into the dry air, a sharp contrast to the heated, desperate passion electrifying the space between them just moments ago. McCree squares his gaze on Reyes’ again.

“You said we’re both degenerates, but—“ he pulls the cigar from his lips again, and rests his hand against the other man’s bicep, “—I’m not like that. I’m not like you.”

What’s plenty to make any other logical person shove Jesse away, to make them swear at him and strike him for such a grievous insult, Gabriel takes it in stride like he always does with McCree. Jesse exhales any remnants of smoke left, dismissing it with ease, as his weary head comes to rest on the defined angle of Reyes’ collarbone.

“I’m not a queer,” he opts for a gentler word, though it’s still as if a blade’s penetrated a chink in Reyes’ armor, given the sharp huff that ruffles Jesse’s hair. He elaborates, “I used to think I was, too. But my father told me that was the devil trying to tempt me. He told me to stay away from boys, ‘cause he didn’t think I could help myself.”

Though he’s far removed from any organized religion, thanks to his abusive deacon of a father and enabler of a mother practically strangling him under the weight of their rules and unfulfilled expectations, the lingering fear of eternal damnation still hangs over him. Like a noose, it tightens around his throat and cuts off his breath with each unrighteous action, ticking down the seconds until the floor drops beneath him and he’s sent to his judgment.

Were it not for the calming sense of normalcy—the casual air of Reyes’ actions and demeanor—Jesse would be scrambling against his restraints much more insistently. Framed like this, tender and intimate, rather than debasing and vile, a small cord of tension snaps within Jesse and his shoulders slacken a bit.

“He almost killed me when he caught me with the first boy. Pulled out the shotgun, and the shrapnel only barely missed both our heads. The sheriff didn’t care. My father lied and told him we were the ones playing with the gun.”

He has no clue why he’s telling this to Reyes. Jesse told no one about his blight; he obediently carried it with his lips sealed, never wanting to tarnish his father’s reputation by being the deacon’s homosexual abomination of a son. Small towns are vicious rumor mills, and his father being excommunicated for his son’s issues could leave them scorned and homeless. Involuntarily, he shakes his head to dismiss the thought.

The cowboy lifts his head just so, angling for his cigar again to soothe the uneasiness brought on by recalling the memory, but his jaw is caught by Gabriel’s tender hand. Firmly, but tenderly, his commander turns his head to encourage eye contact. It strikes fear into his heart as the issue laying between them is contextualized.

He is risking his commander’s standing, his reputation and influence, by allowing his desires to fly unfettered. Jesse is unintentionally lining up to swallow the commander’s career whole with his desire. Worse yet; his constant wearing down of the other has probably held some influence over Reyes’ decision to welcome the advancements rather than reject them, and McCree certainly couldn’t live with himself after severing the artery of Gabriel’s career.

Reyes, presumably spotting the anxiety in McCree’s eyes beginning to wax again, runs an uncharacteristically compassionate thumb along the swell of Jesse’s cheek. Dialing himself back in, it almost comes off to him as pitying, but frankly, Jesse’d take any sliver of affection that his commander threw his way.

Something had taken hold of Reyes for a moment, a fleeting phantom of haunting pain and long-settled scars, and manifested in his fingertips. The gracing ghost of his thumb over McCree’s cheekbone conveys more than he can get himself to say, at least in the moment they’re trapped in like two specters haunting the same unstable space. It pulls warmth to the surface of his skin, coloring his face in a bloom of heat, a stark contrast to the cool lighting of the night sky.

“Anyway,” he says, glancing off. A pinprick of irritation sets in his brow, but Reyes shows no intent to pull away. “I’m not what you think.”

It takes a moment or two, perhaps even longer as he gets caught on McCree’s words, the sudden cascade of information drowning out all other thoughts, to speak, “I don’t know what I think.” The words are earnest, almost whispered with a lilt of upset. The back and forth struggle, the mismatch and disconnect between McCree’s lips and the words that spill from them, is a battle with more adversaries than Reyes thought Jesse was fighting. 

The stubborn denial towards his own actions scratches under his skin more than the demeaning slur he lets slip.  _ The devil trying to tempt me-  _ that one grabbed and choked Reyes’ attention. Each finger curling around his throat and threatening to suffocate him with their implications was worse than the resounding familiarity of the story within his own narrative. The impact of organized religion in his formative years cutting deep, the absence of parental love bleeding him dry, and the indoctrinated dogma of eternal damnation striking millimeters from his arteries with each reminder that he wasn’t holy in the eyes of an outdated God.

Reyes was a reminder.

With that in mind, it further complicates things. It’s as though, through the search for Reyes’ attentions, he’s both scratching an itch and ripping open poorly healed wounds. The drive to collect as much paternal acknowledgment from his commander as possible to satiate the gaping hole in his developmental years and his apparent infatuation with him all the same directly contradict the image of his father burned into his heart and soul. The projection of McCree’s father figure lingering in Reyes’ shadow is a complex problem, where he can’t quite determine how he’s going to walk the thin line between filling the spaces that man has left with recognition and digging into the cracks he opened with calculated affections.

Plucking the cigar from McCree’s lax fingers, he tracks the younger man’s eyes as he brings the butt to his lips before they fall shut as he takes a long drag. That taste- now remarkably Jesse and not just the fragrance of his lingering presence- coats his lips and sticks to his tongue as warm smoke crowds his teeth and drips into his throat. Gently, he encourages the smoke into his lungs with a deep inhale before he releases it. A stream of slow smoke curls from his mouth in dancing whisps as he soaks in the nicotine, not quite buzzing but certainly relishing in the pleasant easiness that coddles his head for the briefest moment. What’s left in the wake of his exhale he turns his head to expel before he brings himself back in.

“I think I see a lot of pain,” Reyes says finally. His voice is certain despite his prefacing words, capturing McCree’s eyes as his fingers itch the underside of his jaw. Settling his hand on Jesse’s bare bicep, fingers bracing the burning cigar away from their bodies, he continues, “I’m not going to tell you what you are or who you need to be.”

His tone is oddly paternal, straddling the line between patient, understanding, and preparing to lecture. Jesse can taste the words on the tip of Reyes’ tongue, and a veil of apprehension falls over McCree’s face. He looks ready to bolt under the looming psychoanalysis, not ready to face the reality of an outside perspective looking in on his untold stories and secrets just yet, especially from an educated elder.

To soothe his hackles, Reyes has to find his tongue where it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth with residual tobacco and repressed emotions. He struggles, fighting through all the things that he so desperately wants to say to put the kid at ease- _I see your pain, I know what it’s like, I care_ \-- and instead settles on something that he can only hope will suffice in their absence, “it’s okay to be confused. God knows I was for twenty years.”

Just those words, implying that Reyes wasn’t always comfortable in his own skin, that he isn’t immune to internal struggle and conflict of identity, spurs an odd realization in McCree. His tone is that of a story retelling, as though McCree’s story is similar enough to his own, close enough to be comparable to the bibles in his small town library. The underlying messages remained set in stone, that of personal crisis and upset and uncomfortable reality, something that he’s edging the cliff of.

Reyes’ words make Jesse’s breath catch in his throat. Confused? He’s only given milliseconds to process the implications of the other’s semi-paternal reassurances before the rest of his sentence follows.

Jesse scrutinizes Gabriel’s expression, searching desperately for any semblance of humor or deception in the shallow-set lines of Reyes’ face. When he’s met with none, at least to his knowledge, another cord well-within him snaps. While there’s no mockery or ill-intent present, there is a certain subtle warmth that may be attributed to the way that the moonlight softens the commander’s complexion. The urge to cry, whether with relief or anger or some other unnamed and unknowable type of catharsis, wells up in his chest, crushing his throat between unforgiving fingers.

He doesn’t cry, though, not yet. Of course. Instead, he swipes his thumb repeatedly over Gabriel’s bicep, on the verge of tenderness, if their relationship to one another were more exactly bordered in, rather than overgrown and tangled and wild, like an invasive vine growing over a retaining wall.

“Twenty years?” he repeats, his voice suddenly hoarse with the titanic effort it takes not to break down. That span of time is almost inconceivable to McCree—nearly the equivalent of his own entire life, Reyes had been filled with the same choking desire to be normal, to so easily align himself with the way the rest of society proclaimed he ought to be. His grip on the other tightens. He’s afraid that if he’s any less insistent on the contact that Gabriel might slip away into the ether.

“Twenty years,” Reyes says, seeing the young man’s uncertainty, looking for give in his features. It’s not a stretched truth, as it took until he was firmly rooted in the military for him to pick up on the lingering effects of his childhood. Even after that, it had taken longer to work through and untangle the various webs of lies and abusive rhetoric they wove into his very being. Where the needle and thread punctured his skin and graphed his perception of himself and struck deep, there were irreparable chips and tears in his bones he could never hope to heal.

The scope of his struggle almost dwarfs McCree’s entire life, just shy a handful of years, although it exists as the brevity of his youth. It seems as near-impossible to wrap his head around, McCree’s eyes widening and his eyebrows knitting together as it processed.

Tears are soon to come, as is plain to see by anyone who might be looking on, but it’s particularly clear to Reyes, who has devoted so much of his time to cataloguing Jesse, to gradually picking him apart in order to eke out each interpretation of his body language. The boy is clearly conflicted, challenged by something the likes of which he’s never had to confront before, and like any conflict, it often necessitates a bit of frustrated crying.

In stark contrast to his usual modus operandi, Jesse doesn’t lash out; he doesn’t turn tail and flee to experience emotion in solitude, if at all. He presses himself forward, until his body weight is almost solely held up by Reyes, and consequently the awning that is growing increasingly distressed in its squeals and groans.

McCree’s head settles naturally in the crook of Reyes’ almost-too-hot neck, with his nose pressed against the life-giving artery at his throat.

A sheen of moisture fills his waterline, and he finds it hard to stand on his own. There’s something else there, some resounding realization, that wracks Jesse’s mind. Something so familiar and accepted within Reyes that he’s blind to it until he takes McCree’s weight into his arms and the wet dog-like press of his nose against his throat, and the broken croak that creeps out of Jesse only encourages him to bundle the younger man against him and allow the foreign warmth to seep into his life-worn body.

“I  _ want  _ to be like you,” he finally manages. With the future sobs clamping down on his voice, his words are edging towards unintelligible even as he speaks beside his commander’s ear. He feels Reyes’ arms tighten around his body, just barely so, and it is all the permission he needs.

He’s heard plenty of agents say that before, that they want to be like him; each blade coated with a different poison. The position, the power and the recognition that comes with it- they want to be a commander like him to serve themselves. His strength and resilience fostered by hurt and hardships- they want to be as impenetrable as he appears to be to escape their own agonies. The misguided belief of pure work and promoting peace in the world through unconventional tactics with their lives on the line- they want to become a martyr with their faces pasted on the walls of dingy alleyways and metros.

When McCree whispers against his throat, lips gracing his pulse and eliciting a jump, it isn’t a knife twisting under Reyes’ armor, digging into his skin, perturbing him with the implications of misconceptions about him, about who he is and what he does. It washes over his heated skin like a lover’s gentled hand, dulcifying the burn of poisonous paranoia- a partner’s kiss, breathing reassurance into his lungs, that he is heard and for once, understood.

Reyes holds him close, doesn’t care his sweatshirt is going to bear the evidence of this later, pacifying the rattling sobs that shake his frame. He runs his hands up and down McCree’s biceps, easing the tension from fisting his sweatshirt out of them, before his palms tenderly follow the line of his deltoid into petting his ribs, trying to pull the pain from what’s kept inside that cage. 

It’s been too long since he’s granted himself the luxury of another body in close company to his own outside of necessity. The last time that he had felt the intimate stroke, the tender hold, or the caring palm of another person had been years ago, and even then there was a war raging within him whether or not it was all a fallacy of domesticity. 

Within the tear streaks and the snot and the gasping sobs is an unnerving genuineness. It doesn’t irk him that McCree is shuddering them both with the force of his sobs and getting his skin damp with tears, nor does he mind the content of his emotional break and the inherent consequences to this shared tenderness. What sits uneasily in him is how honest McCree is, willingly inviting Reyes into the sacred grounds of himself, allowing him to peer into the estate of his mind, and toed open the door to all that he holds under the light. He keeps the boy close to his chest, offering with the slant of his body to take not just the weight of him but the weight of all that he carries inside, even if he only saw a sliver of it for a fraction of a second.

It’s hard to gauge how long it takes for the boy to run himself out of tears, before his lungs to become over-irritated with the convulsive demands for air. Even Jesse himself isn’t able to put a finger on exactly why he’s so violently impacted; it’s unclear whether he’s mourning his lost childhood or his newly-lost concrete sense of identity. But his hands balling into fists and the barely-concealed whimpers make Jesse hyper-aware of how childish he seems in the moment.

Nevertheless, Reyes is there as his rock and as his pillar. Far prior to any sinful perceptions Jesse may now hold for his commander, Gabriel stood as Jesse’s defender and advocate in times of great need. It is to much relief that it hasn’t changed at all with the circumstances; in stark contrast with his biological father, Reyes can be depended upon even when it’s inconvenient for him. Even when such presence picked at his own deeply-held values of impartiality and equity amongst his agents.

He doesn’t move again until the storm has passed, leaving the two of them to reassemble the pieces in the ensuing calm. In an odd way, it’s almost endearing, the puffiness Jesse’s eyes took on, and the tear tracks staining his flushed cheeks. It certainly gives him some years back, solely because no one expects a grown man to openly weep except out of pure anguish.

Meekly, Jesse suggests, “Maybe we should go back inside.” His clogged nose offers a more nasally affect to his words, but it doesn’t appear to bother the commander much.

There’s a moment, where McCree is wiping his eyes blearily with the back of his hand like a young child tiring themself out with their emotions, too big for their bodies, that seems to strip away a layer of Reyes. It’s ugly, blackened and bruised and burnt on the surface, used to bearing the brunt of all that falls his way: blood, gore, trauma, abuse, and the like all expressed across the outer ring like a long year of drought in a tree. Under it, a faint projection where the blows were too heavy to stay on the surface, a softer and still tarnished layer shows its face and since the walls went up around him years and years ago, McCree is the first to grace its surface in a long time.

“You look rough,” Reyes says obviously, thumbs skipping over the divets of muscles and ribs as McCree collects himself. It warrants the smallest simper as he sniffles. Something tugs his gaze away like a marionette, an invisible string forming him into a performance. The flush over his face that makes his freckles pop out, the puffiness around his eyes where they have been opened and drained like a wound, and the passive look in his eyes as he gazes up at Reyes through wet lashes all stirs something in his stomach. As the puppet he is, he averts his eyes and looks elsewhere to take a drag from McCree’s cigar.

Once the smoke is cleared from his mouth, he coaxes the cigar back between its owner’s fingers before he speaks again. “Your head is killing you, I bet,” he muses, still not relinquishing the gentle hold he has on McCree, “We should head inside.”

_ Gentle, gentle, gentle.  _ This kid has him bare and defenseless.  _ A soft spot for you.  _

McCree nods slowly, showing his confirmation about the impending post-breakdown migraine and in response to his mirrored suggestion. And yet, even with both in agreement, they still stand there under the awning yawning under the wind and weight of them. McCree smokes his cigar avidly as though the nicotine will nurse his migraine into nothingness, and Reyes takes part in a silent exchange, cigar changing hands every five minutes or so before they’ve had their fill.

Reyes’ hands fall away from McCree as they make their way through the dinner, and the chill to his palms doesn’t last for long. McCree is quick to settle back down, curling up just a bit more than before, and Reyes resumes his position behind him. While it was apparent that McCree was not falling sick and that, without his initial reason for keeping him close, he had no excuse for it, Reyes still drapes his arm over McCree’s waist. This time, there is no freeze, no uncertainty, even if more hesitation will come on later. Jesse relaxes into his bedroll at the little weight on his hip and the warmth cradling his body, going as far as shifting back to feel the full press of Reyes’ body.

Exhausted himself, Reyes is aware that he shouldn’t allow it, that there should be some margin between them even with everything that transpired between them, but worn from the day of ups and downs and emotional rollercoasters, the only thing he can do is tighten his grip and press into his shoulder with a reclined sigh. Reyes waits and listens until the younger man’s breathing evens out in a rhythm of unconsciousness. It doesn’t take long, the other man assuredly more ragged being the source of all the turmoil, before he finally allows himself to feel the full weight of his exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a slow burn, even though we've decided that a good deal of tension should happen early before we get to all the pain and comfort that will come.
> 
> Will update next Thursday or sooner, let us know what you think and any ideas you may have, we appreciate all sorts of feedback!
> 
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)  
> [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)


	3. Wake of Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're honest mistakes.   
> Before McCree himself can find room under Reyes’ skin, he has to be at home in his own. Reyes’ is too warm, too open, as though Jesse were an arctic hare trapped in the savanna. He has yet to shed his winter coat as his body is not ready for the sun.  
> Despite it all-- through instinct and environment fighting him-- he keeps trying, only to get burned.

The pair of them are woken bright and early the next morning, not only by the sunlight already pouring in through the diner windows, lazy and warm like honey, but by one Fletcher sporting eye bags so stark in comparison to his complexion that they look like makeup, making rounds to rouse everyone from slumber. A stake of anxiety is driven through Jesse’s heart at first—equally due to his fear of sudden attack and the shame of being caught so intimately with Gabriel.

A glint of recognition is all the reaction McCree is offered by Fletcher’s face, but the subduedness of the response does some to lave over the fear welling up like an unattended cut on Jesse’s psyche. The captain seems to make a mental note of something before responding to the dismissive hand-wave from Reyes and continuing on to wake the rest of the agents they have in tow.

Cold fear settling in the pit of the cowboy’s stomach is instead replaced with a bloom of saccharine warmth as the commander pulls him closer. He’s certain he doesn’t have the confidence to lock lips again in the vulnerable light of day, but the gentle reminder that the previous night hadn’t been some cocktail of dream and nightmare is appreciated. McCree’s hand comes down to rest delicately atop Reyes’.

Some part of him comes to the realization that he wouldn’t mind greeting  _ every  _ morning from within the cradle of Gabriel’s arms, but like a drowning man, he shoves the idle thought beneath the waves again to keep himself afloat. As desperate as he is to keep true to his declaration—that he does want to be as secure in himself as Reyes appears to be—it is met with an equally-deep rooted desire to thrash to the surface, and fill his lungs with complete and utter normalcy. Giving his affliction a label—denial—is only a fraction of the battle ahead of him. Journeys as long and treacherous as the one he’s liable to face are seldom completed, and frankly, Jesse’s uncertain he even has the willpower to begin.

Relishing the contact in spite of the chronic guilt plaguing him, Jesse sits like that for a few more minutes. He listens to Reyes’ breathing behind him for a beat, then squeezes the commander’s hand before breaking free of his grasp.

With practiced ease, though his hands are fumbling somewhat with sleep inertia, he re-equips his armor. For all of a few seconds, he’s lost in the mundane ritual. Somewhere between consciousness and not, he completes his task, and when he’s finished, he’s thankful to be able to take some sort of solace in routine. For some brief time, it allows him to forget the intricacies of his situation and exist only in the space of what his hands are doing. He’s only broken out of his trancelike state by Reyes’ soft grunt of effort in pulling his old bones into an upright position.

“Morning,” Jesse offers, uncertainly testing the waters between them. He doesn’t want any awkwardness between them, but he’s unsure how likely they’ll be able to manage that, what with him spilling his guts and breaking down and kissing Gabriel all within the span of a half hour, and stone-sober to boot.

When he hears the greeting echoed, his shoulders slacken upon his exhale. On the surface level, there seems to be no bad blood between them, but undoubtedly there are deeper issues to be addressed. Professionally and socially. For now, he just has to settle for uncertainty, which is not his forte. Anything not set in concrete has a tendency to put him on edge.

With his own huff, he fights against the counterbalance of his armor to rise to his feet. Most agents are given a chance to pick at their breakfast rations for at least an hour while their leaders convene and delegate tasks, but the whirlwind of emotion has done no favors to his appetite. He settles for perching at the bar alongside a few half-asleep agents to at least play the part, if not actually participate.

With lazy interest, he watches Reyes shed the remnants of slumber in the short walk to Fletcher’s side, no doubt to discuss the logistics of the mission laying ahead of them.

“Have a nice night?” the captain addresses Reyes dryly, with perhaps a flicker of a smile in his eyes, but nothing else. The pieces of the puzzle are there, between Fletcher’s exhaustion and the hint of coyness in the subtext of his words, but it’s up to Reyes to put it together.

Shifting topics before still-groggy Reyes could adequately respond, “I’ve already been in contact with Santiago and Oberon in regards to the state of their reconnaissance. Both are on time in that respect, and we hope to—with your permission and leadership—infiltrate the Deadlock hideout by tomorrow night.”

Fletcher almost takes delight in the way Reyes’ eyes narrow in the time it takes for him to process his words, but his emotions soon do a 180, taking on an air of seriousness, then fear as the commander speaks.

The publicity of their conversation doesn’t allow for much, but ever-so-subtly Reyes creeps into the smaller man’s space. “You can hold your tongue, Fletcher.”

With the minor act of verbally stripping him of his rank, Fletcher feels no more impressive than a guilty child. He’s almost given whiplash as Reyes withdraws just as suddenly as he snapped. His tone is still very much tinted with anger, but the captain no longer feels physically threatened.

“We’ll see what we can pick up by the end of the night because as it stands, the gang has vanished into thin air. Their current location isn’t certain, and I won’t risk lives on old information and hunches.”

While Jesse isn’t one to tend towards eavesdropping, talk of the gang always seemed to catch his attention like fingernails on felt. A twang of annoyance is sent down his spine at Reyes’ words. He’d risk being caught listening in if he spoke up at all, so he instead licks yesterday’s wounds and sulks somewhat. The fact that Reyes had brought him on as a shepherd of sorts and reduced his experience to hunches and old information stings just as it did yesterday.

It simply doesn’t make any sense to him why there would still be guards prowling the tunnel networks if Ashe isn’t still active in the area in some capacity. They were very clearly dressed as gang members, with their bright yellow bandanas as subtle as signal flares, and they were just as intent on killing him as their public death threat promised.

He loses interest in the last few exchanges between leaders, too distracted by Reyes’ harsh words when only a few hours ago he’d been so unconditionally soft.

The remainder of the day, in Jesse’s eyes, is downright wasted, festering in a too-hot diner with other agents similarly without stimulation until they saw proper combat. He’d played a few rounds of poker before becoming disinterested (unfortunately, games like that lost appeal quickly to a sore loser), spent plenty of time watching the loose soil dance in the wind outside, and occasionally dozed off, only to be woken minutes later each time by radio chatter from the other captains.

From the scraps he does manage to catch, it appears Oberon’s crew caught nothing more conclusive than a few more guards. Though in his mind, that is more than enough evidence to conclude that the two in the tunnel were no coincidence, Reyes still seems unconvinced. What it would take to convince him is unclear—does he want the highest ranking members to march out of the old stronghold and turn themselves in?

This thought periodically rises to the top of his mind, even hours after the fact. It’s not until the sun again begins its decent over the rim of the canyon that it dawns on Jesse what the root of the problem may very well be: Reyes is afraid of endangering him. Consciously or not, Gabriel may very well be jeopardizing the success of the mission objective purely to keep McCree out from under enemy crosshairs. And he’s both flattered and upset by this theory.

He thoughtfully strokes the few sparse hairs sprouting from his chin as he scans the room for Reyes. The thought of confronting him on it isn’t appealing, but what better chance does he have at salvaging the mission than before any sweeping action has been taken?

He spies the commander in one of the unused booths, frowning as he reads something on his tablet. In a matter of seconds, Jesse is opposite him, and his foot is resting against Reyes’ as a preemptive peace offering.

“What’s it gonna take to convince you that we’re not alone here?” he’s never one to hold back on coming out guns blazing, and not even Gabriel is an exception to that. There’s no accusatory lilt to his voice, though, purely confusion. “Five guards isn’t enough to convince you?”

Reyes didn’t look up until McCree had finished speaking, more focused on scanning his inflection for any hint of animosity. When he doesn’t hear any, he moves to evaluate his general body language, as the kid is as easy to read as an open book. McCree was lax, folding his arms on the table in front of him and easily leaning across the space as if trying to take a peek at the tablet in his search for answers like a child tipping their nose up to try and see into their parents’ hands.

Shifting back and taking the tablet with him, Reyes eases into the crinkling pleather of the booth. Expressing unadulterated ease with his agent, he folds his arms across his chest with a shake of his shoulders, shaking out the tension collected from just sitting and staring at the godforsaken tablet for far too long.

“Deadlock has its fingers in every branch of this canyon,” Reyes says evenly as he gets comfortable, “There were two in the mines but the other three have been flagged over a mile from here.“

Removing the tip of his boot from where Jesse has knocked them together, Reyes sinks into his seat and plants his feet firmly against the bottom board of Jesse’s booth. While eliminating the contact they shared briefly, the teensiest expression of amicability, Gabriel cages Jesse’s legs between his own as his thighs fall open and his seated stance widens to accommodate his presence.

“Given the location of every hostile we’ve identified, I’m under the impression that we aren’t as close to them as we thought. Had they stayed exactly where they were last time I was here, we’d be tripping over them,” Gabriel drones on.

Underneath the table, his boots are jostled as McCree’s heels slide sideways. Reyes raises an eyebrow at the younger man as he asks rhetorically, “what will it take?”

“Nothing’s stopped you from rushing in before,” Jesse states, “What’s different now? The two in the tunnels would’ve been plenty cause for action anywhere else.” While his tone is glazed over with humor, he can tell by the quirk in Reyes’ brow that he’s elicited some sort of indignance in the other.

“Really now?” he says flatly. Straightening, dragging his heels across the dingy diner tiles as he mirrors McCree’s posture. “Kid,” Reyes sighs out, voice wrapped in equal parts understanding and irritation, “I get that you’re tired of sitting around with your thumb up your ass, but some things  _ can’t _ be rushed. There is nothing to rush unless you want to take the gamble and infiltrate an empty facility.”

“If they’re as spread out as you think, it shouldn’t be a problem if it’s empty. I’m not saying we have to walk up there and knock,” Jesse counters. There’s the ever-present hint of defiance smoldering in his eyes. “There might be a clue as to where they are in there.”

“Wasted time and resources is the problem. I got Morrison breathing down my neck because he wants this done  _ right, _ ” Reyes says, gaze hardening as it becomes clear that McCree is choosing to be painfully obstinate. “Last time I checked, that doesn’t mean going off a hunch. We’ll get just as much information, if not more, from the scheduled reconnaissance.”

Jesse throws his hands up, signalling that he’s aware he’s beat. Reyes is seldom snappy with him, and is certainly just as dissatisfied with their lack of action. Paying agents to sit around and wait doesn’t exactly reflect well on him, and it weighs on morale heavier than one might think to loiter around in the middle of the desert for hours on end. He offers the hint of a smirk as an olive branch. 

“Fine. I trust you. Just getting tired of waiting, is all. I feel like a sitting duck.”

Reyes’ shoulders sag as the mounting anger bleeds away with McCree’s surrender. Reyes can recognize when their conditions start to wear on his team, and the oppressing heat and suffocating boredom make quick work of even the most cool-headed agents’ patience. Even he was beginning to grow a little testy, quicker to rise to McCree’s usual smart-ass remarks than normal. 

The greatest source of upset is the fact that he feels as though it weren’t truly his mission, but Morrison’s. From the moment the file hit Morrison’s desk to the first step off the dropship, the entire mission has been scripted with every I dotted and every T already crossed for him. It’s as though through all the years Morrison has spent on top, he’s forgotten that a mission- especially one laden with so many extra risks- cannot simply be written out and performed as on stage.

As reluctant as Jesse is to prod--for once--he lays his hands back down. “How much more can they even do at this point? You can only be so prepared for these folks.”

Speaking from his firsthand experience tends to catch Reyes’ attention more promptly. The gang’s entire MO is being as slick as any situation allowed, as flexibility allows for more maneuvering around law enforcement. Where there is no strength in numbers, there is strength to sticking to the shadows. As aware as he is that Reyes (or, rather, Morrison using Reyes as a conduit) wants surgical precision, there is only so much waiting to be done before the trail is lost entirely, and there’s a mutual unspoken understanding between them. Perhaps all Reyes needs is a bit of spurring.

“I know I don’t have much say, but I think we should get a move on. If they’ve made themselves so scarce now, it means they’re getting ready for something,” McCree says. 

Sighing, Reyes scrubs a hand over his face as if it will ward off the building pressure in his temples. Casting his stare out the window at the slowly passing clouds, he mutters bitterly under his breath, “as it stands, I don’t have much say, either.” 

Silence elapses between them as both of them stew in their own annoyances. McCree sits with his cigar dangling loosely from his lips, taking idle drags as his fingers twitch against themselves, and Reyes watches nothing in particular as he circumvents his burning exasperation by running through their scant information, gathered from Oberon’s and Santiago’s tireless efforts, for the hundredth time that hour.

“Morrison wants us to give it another day before he grants me any free will,” Reyes says suddenly, making Jesse jolt out of his distracted reverie. A cynical smirk twists his lips as he scoffs, “between you and me, I don’t think Morrison knows his ass from a hole in the ground.” Given enough of a chance to process his words, Jesse snorts. He pushes himself out of his relaxed slouch against the greasy seat as he shakes his head.

“Reflects more on him than you. Doesn’t make any sense to me why he’d promote you if all he’s gonna do is use you as a puppet in the field. Should come down here himself if he’s got such a stick up his ass about it,” McCree soothes. More a sympathetic gesture, seeing as he shares similar, more frequently-voiced opinions about Morrison. Ever since his initiation into the division, Morrison always seemed to view him as a backup option--something to use if the prime agents were unavailable. It’s the lion’s share of the reason why he harbors so much more faith in Reyes than the alternative strike commander. 

The easy movement of Jesse sliding out of the booth as he’s done thousands of times before draws Reyes’ eyes away from the canyon gorge. It was getting into the evening, with the sun daintily teasing the horizon with her lips and showering all of the decrepit diner with her beauty. Through the streaks and stains painting the windows, the sunlight arches underneath the tattered awnings and above the scraggly desert shrubbery and splashes Jesse’s face with radiance.

Basking in the light as his quips fall naturally off his tongue, mauling and blunt, he has to squint against the incoming rays to peer at Reyes. The warmth drips from Jesse and down Reyes’ throat, soothing the festering anger like honey and instilling a momentary calm in its place. With amusement pinching high in the corners of his eyes and the dance of stains and sun leaking through the window, Jesse’s face is dappled in shades of brilliance. His freckles fall similar to the unpredictable spatter of dirt with the joyous glint of a child caught digging in the garden despite explicit instruction not to, hands full of worms and pockets full of weeds. 

Filthy and obstinate, spitting in Morrison’s face with his brazen smile. 

Reyes almost buffers for a few moments, the words processing slowly like his eyes adjusting to a flash of light. Before he can silence it, a rumbling laugh escapes him, and the fast counter to try and reign it in only results in a snort, buried under his palm.

“Easy, kid,” he manages to get out, “gonna get yourself burned with all that fire.”

Garnering himself such an animated reaction from Reyes is reward enough, and he flourishes under the attention like a desert flower after rain. Jesse’s lopsided grin dominates his features as he leans over onto the tabletop, hand planted firmly beside Reyes’ arm. If he weren’t armed to the teeth, he’d look like an overenthusiastic waiter jonesing for a fat tip. 

“Well, Morrison isn’t around to hear it, so I don’t see any reason to hold back.”

His other hand comes up to fondly rest on Reyes’ shoulder. It’s a minute gesture, but not one that the commander would allow from anyone other than Jesse. As much as he takes it for granted, being on the receiving end of Gabriel’s affections is a rare treat, given that the man carries himself as if he were heartless and untouchable. The proximity he’s permitted by his unique relationship with Reyes doesn’t always seem to register to the cowboy; rather, Jesse has normalized it in his mind in order to make it more palatable for his ingrained fear of male intimacy.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna get me in trouble.” The underlying current of humor still ripples through his words despite how much they had softened. Given their increased proximity, Jesse is certain to catch all the fondness that man can muster- how he fails to convey real warning, as though he’s already resigned to take the fall for McCree. He doesn’t need to be blatant for Jesse to catch it, especially as the corners of his lips stay tweaked up underneath his bristling facial hair rather than falling into his typical, puggish scowl.

“That’s never stopped me before,” Jesse replies. In a more affectionate way than he ever has before, he squeezes and lightly massages the tense muscles comprising Reyes’ deltoid. Even such a small indication of his innermost and raw, unprocessed regard towards the other man is overwhelming. He hears it roaring in time with the pulse in his ears as heat rises in his cheeks, kissing them with blush just as the sunset kisses the landscape. He’s playing with fire in more ways than one, but now, foremost in both of their minds is how public this display is. Most agents are far too preoccupied with whatever pastimes or vices caught their interest to pass the day in the first place to care about any goings on that aren’t immediately dangerous to their health, but the slightest of wandering gazes risks revealing the true nature of the relationship between leader and agent.

The smallest movement in his peripheral vision has Reyes’ mind fighting, the sudden tug on the bridle of taboo clamping his mouth shut and forcing his head forward, as he’s acutely aware of the stinging consequences of bucking too hard. Yet despite that, Reyes can’t maintain the tension in his body, level with the sudden stress weighing on his heart, and he finds himself melting into pliancy under Jesse's tentative massaging. 

The contact, fingers getting more confident and body suffocatingly close, elicits the tiniest shiver. It shoots down Reyes’ spine as he revels in the indisputable pleasure of McCree’s adept hand working the tension out of him like it were venom. He finds himself, in a deep, repressed portion of his psyche, wanting McCree to take the next step, lowering his lips to Reyes’ heated skin to siphon the toxins from his muscle. The thought of Jesse’s lips gracing him once more is enough to twist his stomach into knots. Though he doesn’t even flinch at the sight of viscera anymore, the mere implications tied into the contact make him feel as though he’s cresting a hill at top speed. And the fact that it’s Jesse’s doing is enough to bring him simultaneously, paradoxically, to relaxation. Eyelids drooping, he leans into McCree’s touch as a stray lurches into a prospective owner’s arms. 

As though he were pulling back from the brink of unconsciousness, Reyes blinks heavily, trying to regain some semblance of control over himself before he’s left himself vulnerable. Exacerbating the risks inherent in being caught and limiting any excuses he may be able to claim should they be caught, he rests his hand on the boy’s forearm.

“Can’t say it’s ever stopped me, either,” Reyes hums, voice thick and saccharine in Jesse's ears. The cloying inflection in his superior’s voice unlike anything he’s ever heard from Gabriel, it causes Jesse to catch on the air in his throat. It’s a feeling akin to choking back tears. Had it not been for the roadblocks of his internal battles in combination with the presence of others in the vicinity, he would have crushed his lips against Reyes’ again, just as he had done the night prior. Never would he be able to admit it to himself, but he wants to feel the other’s fingers come to tangle in his hair as they meet and again submit under his superior’s will. Instead, in the confines of the diner, all of his desires are condensed into whatever he’s able to convey in his gaze.

Forceful kneading of fingers peters out into subdued teasing at the seam in the shoulder of Reyes’ sweatshirt as Jesse drinks in the moment. His hand traces along the sliver of collarbone he’s able to reach through the fabric without betraying his hand to the rest of the room. They’re unable to share breaths from so far away, but the communion between them in that moment is enough to make them feel as though they were. 

Reyes delights in the dusk collecting inside of Jesse’s irises, intoxicating as whiskey and syrupy as chocolate liqueur. Self-indulgence is something he seldom allows himself to partake in, but as with any number of his other tenets, McCree effortlessly makes an exception. Pangs of jealousy, however subdued, plague him whenever Jesse’s vision skirts to something else, robbing him of the glimpse of gold in his eyes. 

“ _ No podemos hacer esto aquí, _ ” the cowboy drawls. He doesn’t intend to rip the commander from his thoughts, but he’s well-aware of the suspicion their body language could draw. Parting with one final squeeze, Jesse’s smile settles in the corners of his eyes. 

“ _ Sé _ ,” Reyes sighs. Remnants of a far-off look reside in his features like he was caught in a daydream. Even code-switching isn’t enough to return him to full lucidity, but it does bring a hint of focus back to him. 

Another lapse of mutual silence falls between them. As comforting as it is to listen to each other speak their mother tongue, each word wreathed in familiarity as a result of the necessary accents, even selecting another language does not inherently guarantee them immunity to eavesdropping. While they are united in their common background and similarly in their marginalization, the sheer diversity of each accompanying team member strips away encoding of intent. Words, no matter how soft-spoken or how obscured their meaning, are subject to being overheard. 

Making moves to further separate from Reyes, to disengage and play off that it had been no more meaningful than a deep conversation, each inch moved away seems to suck residual warmth from Reyes’ body. Ever one to defy his expectations, Jesse has made him realize how much he does crave the contact that he’s denied himself since his disastrous relationship with Morrison. As convinced of it that he was--that human contact is for someone less able to control their base instincts--Jesse’s tracing over his form has undone all of the conditioning he put himself through. As tender and reverent as a child running their fingers along the ridges of a seashell, toes dug into the damp sand and wind whipping the hair in their face with salt air, Jesse has begun gradually teasing out the intricacies of Reyes with innocent wonder. The salinity of the world hasn’t entirely tarnished and corroded the younger man’s admiration for others as Morrison has tarnished Reyes’, but were it not for the mutual shelter that he finds within the older, he’d have rusted and crumbled to nothing. Reyes would have, too. 

As the boy continues pulling away, turning to busy himself with something, anything else, Reyes’ mind snaps to attention at the realization that he’d lose the company of the other. Mind whirring, he spits out, “Jesse, why don’t you grab a deck of cards? Might as well spend the rest of the day doing something instead of sitting around staring outside.”

His spurs clack against the tile like a dog’s unclipped nails as he turns on his heel to face the commander again. Jesse’s brow quirks up in recognition. As much as he plays dumb, and thanks to Morrison’s not-so-tender care early on in his career, sometimes feels dumb, he’s not quite as dense as most may think. Reyes is making excuses to spend time with him, and as much as he cherishes the attention, he almost equally fears it. A simple nod is all the acknowledgement Reyes receives before he’s gone to dig cards from his personal belongings. 

His heart beats in his throat as he returns to his seat across from Reyes. His legs settle in the same place, with Gabriel’s bracketing him in easily. The idle thought of, “  _ is this a date? _ ” digs in at the forefront of his mind, but it’s easily dismissed. Reyes is simply not the romantic type, and any additional consideration on McCree’s part must be overthinking. 

The cowboy palms the deck of cards out of the box, their glossy backs flashing in the buzzing fluorescent lighting as he starts shuffling them. To say that he isn’t showboating the catalogue of conspicuous shuffling methods would be a lie; had any of the other agents not been so engrossed in their own dealings, the showmanship could have brought considerable attention to him. A quarter of his time, at minimum, spent running with the gang had been spent playing card games, so he picked up a considerable amount of skill just from observing the older gang members.

Raising an eyebrow, Reyes watches those dexterous fingers flip through the deck with practiced ease. Half of him expects the younger man to start doing magic tricks like a street magician does to an unsuspecting bystander, while the other half grows suspicious that all the flashy card flips and fancy finger work is a farce, compensating for undeveloped skills or to simply obscure any cheating. They meet eyes for a moment as Jesse starts to deal, eyes having been entranced with the display, and he grins in a challenge, leaning his body weight against the table with a roguish hum as his hand pulls his cards close.

When Jesse finally throws his cards to the table in one last round of defeat, the last sliver of sunlight is insufficient to allow them to pick out the suits in their hand anymore. While everyone else has begun winding down for the night, wrapping up conversations and saying their nightly farewells, their game has worn on into the first hints of nighttime. The setting sun gives the impression it is closer to seven, but in fact it’s nearing eleven when McCree finally gives up.

“It’s too dark to see my hand,” he complains huffily, though it’s all in good fun. 

“I can see mine just fine,” Reyes says blankly even with the faintest smirk on his lips. 

“What, your serums give you night vision, too?”

“Eh, a little.”

For once, Reyes is the only one of the pair grinning broadly, moreso at his own humor than anything else. It creases the corners of his eyes, beaming bright in the darkness, and McCree can’t hold the face of faux annoyance, breaking character with a scoff of laughter. They recieve a few distasteful glances from nearer agents that are settling into their bedrolls, but it almost makes another wave of laughter well in Jesse’s throat. With a contented noise, smile in his eyes, he levels his gaze at Reyes.

“Bedtime?” he offers. As well as he believes he hides it, the bleariness in his face and eye bags beginning to take shape in the well of his eye sockets are a dead giveaway to McCree’s exhaustion. Even a day of rest tolls on him, what with his constant vigilance and, if not bracing for surprise attacks, reliving the moments where he and his gang were the hunters, rather than the hunted.

Glancing out the windows into the starry night, Reyes simply shrugs. It isn’t that McCree is asking him for permission-- he knows full well that Gabriel isn’t going to deny him the right to sleep on the grounds of finishing a frivolous game of cards-- but is inviting Reyes to keep his company. The innocence of the question reflected in McCree’s tired diction sits on Reyes’ mind heavily, enough to stifle his comment about McCree’s losing hand as he collects their cards and sorts them back into a neat pile for a later date.

Lightening their steps as they make their way through the diner, considerate in their efforts in trying not to wake those already sleeping, they slip over the counter top into their secluded nest of equipment bags and unmade bedrolls. Even Reyes isn’t immune to the lawless opinion that making one’s bed is a pointless task, a mindset that many people grow out of.

With a grunt, Jesse settles into a kneel on his bedroll, while Reyes opts to instead perch on the countertop. He offers no more than the lazy, half-interested gaze of an aloof housecat, giving naught but his presence to the boy; instead, he only steals glimpses of the other, slowly working out of his armor, between his scoping out of the rest of the diner. The commander offers a taught nod of acknowledgement to Fletcher, who’s looked over in a similarly disinterested manner, and again averts his gaze once the eye contact is severed.

Reyes’ attention is caught by a muted cry of success as Jesse finally loosens the troublesome strap he’s been caught on for the past few seconds. Half an amused smile forms on Reyes’ lips, more fond of the boy’s seeming unfamiliarity with the very armor he’s been equipping and removing for the past however many years than he’d ever expect himself to be. In any other situation, it would be grounds for reprimand; how can a commander entrust anyone with responsibility if they can’t even tell the difference between the lateral and medial torso straps on their armor? But with Jesse, it’s just another of his endearing quirks.

Amusement stirring in his chest, Reyes watches as Jesse shifts to begin undoing the various fasteners and straps affixing the armor to his leg, brows knitted in concentration as he tries to remember the correct sequence to most efficiently free himself of the reinforced metal imprisoning his calf and thigh. After more than fifteen seconds pass of the cowboy occasionally swearing under his breath as he struggles under Gabriel’s watchful eye, Reyes easily slips off the counter and kneels adjacent to McCree. It’s cramped, given the small berth of the walkway they’re nestled in, but at this point, it is the least of Reyes’ concerns. They’d been closer.

“Let me show you a couple tricks,” he says. Reyes holds his hands out in offering, palms up, to allow Jesse the opportunity to receive help.

Blood pressure already on the rise from the armor that doesn’t seem to want to come off, it’s almost adding insult to injury when Reyes offers the assistance. It’s not like he’s a new recruit fresh out of civilian life; he’s got a good bearing when it comes to being in the field, and his armor’s almost as pristine as it was when he got it, save for a few dents and poorly-buffed scrapes. A deep exhale leaves his nose, and his mouth is open to give Gabriel lip when he notices that there’s no impatience residing in Gabriel’s expression. His anger shrinks like an irradiated tumor, almost to nothingness when the other gives a gentle nod towards his waiting hands.

Reluctantly, Jesse shifts and delicately rests the meat of his calf in Gabriel’s hands. Receiving the full weight of Jesse’s foot, Reyes settles in to get to work. Tugging his leg straight so that his sole is flat to Reyes’ stomach, the older man simply evaluates the layout of armor the way a chess master picks apart the board. 

Under the scrutiny, even though it is impassive and not directed towards him at all, McCree feels picked apart, like he’s being viewed under a microscope down to the barest of cellular levels. A wave of self-consciousness washes over him, though Reyes, lost in his study of Jesse, doesn’t notice the shifting of his eyes pointedly towards anywhere  _ but _ Reyes, or the fidgeting of his fingers against the uncomfortable bedding beneath them. Each meticulous movement, however insignificant, makes McCree’s heart stutter against his ribs. Like a message in Morse, it warns him of the dangers of growing too intimate with Reyes, how risky it is to grow comfortable in the arms of the other man.

Improvising his plan of attack, Reyes’ fingers skitter across the underside of McCree’s calf to locate the straps holding them in place. Even with McCree’s armor specially tailored to his body and to his aesthetic, Reyes doesn’t falter once as he works through the belts and latches. In about half the time that McCree averages, Gabriel has successfully stripped his leg bare of armor, including his spur and boot, the most foreign concept in modern times. It was partially Reyes’ fault that the man had those damned things in his uniform, weak when it comes to the cultural flags his agents want to fly, though he isn’t even certain Jesse’s been face-to-face with a horse before in his life.

Watching his commander’s analytical abilities, as Reyes manages to take something entirely alien to him and completely master the intricacies of it in one go-around, Jesse struggles to find his tongue again. The entire point of Reyes stripping him down was to teach him a few tricks and workarounds, likely so he’d get his ass in gear and quit being so late to line-up.

“Alright,” Reyes mumbles to himself, satisfied with his test-run. He pushes the pile of heavy metal to the side of his bedroll with a lazy bat of his hand, shifting his weight in his haunches as he takes Jesse’s other ankle in hand. Growing complacent, with some of the more undesirable emotions of anger and anxiety subsiding into subdued interest in the ways Reyes’ hands dance effortlessly along the armor, he’s emboldened to comment.

“You’re fast. Think about undressing me often?”

Their eyes connect. It’s Jesse’s thinly-veiled attempt at maintaining his persona of unwaverable confidence while his mind is at odds with itself. 

Nonplussed, Reyes states flatly, “you’re doing it wrong.”

“Like hell I am,” Jesse scoffs.

“Work top to bottom,” Reyes instructs, pointedly ignoring the comment. His hand ghosts across the leather of belts until his fingers catch on the topmost one, “opposite of how you put it on.” 

Using the hold he has on his leg, Reyes twists it just so, not enough to cause any strain on his hips but just enough to allow McCree a better understanding. To compensate for the awkward angle of his limb, he settles on his elbows and closes the opening of his thighs by drawing his free leg against Reyes’ own boot.

“Hold up the loose end like this,” Gabriel says with a demonstration, pinching a strap between his index and middle finger, “then use your thumb to make the belt go slack.” Easily, his thumb butts against the metal clip keeping the belt tight and wedges under, effectively alleviating the pressure of the armor on his knee. Repeating the same process with the other straps, all the way down to his spur, Reyes holds the armor in place even as it loses its snug grip on his calf.

“Good with your hands?” McCree teases with his signature wink tacked onto the end, even as he’s met with narrowed eyes.

“I oughta trap you in your armor.”

“Just showed me how to get out.”

Gabriel’s turn to roll his eyes, he’s not so gentle as he compresses the metal into Jesse’s leg, not enough to hurt, but not as soft as he could have been. With the redirected pressure, the latches fall loose easier and release the metal shielding on McCree’s remaining calf. Reyes leaves the remainder to Jesse--namely the boots and spurs. He figures he ought not bruise Jesse’s ego any further, by implying he’s too dull to even pull a boot off. Besides, he’s not even sure he’s up to figuring out how to remove the spurs if he wanted to.

Once all is said and done, Gabriel declares his efforts sufficient by shoving both piles of armor to the side, joining the chestpiece that had begun the whole ordeal. He peels himself away from Jesse, cognizant of the way the kid’s beginning to fixate on their positions--with Reyes knelt between his thighs and barely allowing any space for individual breaths to be drawn--by the way Jesse’s foot is thumping idly against his boot. Whether an anxious or eager gesture, Gabriel can’t be sure, but he is certain that he holds the other’s undivided attention.

Noting a mournful look dominating Jesse’s eyes in wake of their separation, it only serves to confuse Reyes. The waxing and waning of the cowboy’s affections makes Reyes’ head spin--the constant flipping between yearning for Reyes’ touch and detesting the very thought of him prevents him from gaining any sense of balance. Thoughts of his failed relationship with Morrison flare up like unattended embers, but he stamps them out before they have a chance to catch again. Turbulence never resulted in any sort of payoff in affection or growth when he was with Jack, only threats of disgracement or unemployment were leftover after their frequent arguments. At least with McCree he could expect the boy to return, head hung low in shame at his actions, and if not an outright apology, at least some reconciliatory behavior.

Reyes centers himself atop his bedroll before stretching out, a sigh escaping him as his muscles finally release after sitting down all day. He’s correct in assuming that Jesse will eventually sort out what level of contact he desires, seeing as the boy waits no more than a handful of seconds before he’s moving to make up for lost contact. Tentatively, Jesse inches towards Reyes again, seeking some sort of shelter within the clutches of Reyes’ heat. Just for Jesse, always for Jesse, he carves another exception out of the marble of himself, rolling obediently onto his side and lifting his arm to create a space for the younger man to slot himself into. Jesse takes the bait with ease, wriggling against the wall of Reyes’ chest with a muted noise of contentment at the base of his throat. 

Wielding a bit more confidence than the previous night, he allows his arm to drop once McCree is relatively stationary against him. His arms envelop the boy easily, as though they were intended to fit together so perfectly. As cliche as it is, Reyes’ mind likens it to puzzle pieces fitting together. Perhaps two puzzle pieces from different puzzles, with clashing imagery and dissimilar patterns along their edges, but they’re bound together nonetheless. 

A few minutes of pure contact lapse, nothing but the exchange of body heat and the occasional faint hum as Jesse drinks in the affection, before that very contentment shifts into an air of impatience. McCree fidgets every few moments, adjusting again each time Reyes begins to settle with his new positioning. A grumpy exhale on Reyes’ part slips out before he lifts his arm again in an invitation for Jesse to sort himself out, whether that be by separating and returning to his own bedding or not. And evidently it’s not. 

Rather boldly, Jesse flips himself over, so that he’s instead face-to-face with his commander. Needless to say, it’s surprising for Reyes, all the skittishness and conflict on McCree’s part up until this point considered, and the sudden change rings a number of alarm bells in his head. As interested as he is in Jesse and wants his affections, he doesn’t want them for the wrong reasons. And should the reasons for Jesse’s rapid advancements be anything but personal enjoyment, Reyes wouldn’t hesitate to put them down. 

Jesse’s eyes now have a hint of curiosity lying within, and a touch of desire as well. Like a child in a candy store, given allowance by his parents to run free and unsupervised. McCree’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

Though they’re veiled in the complete darkness offered only by a rural setting, their noises are not. Each crinkling of sheets or rustle of cloth would easily betray their movement with one another. Even so, Reyes feels hunger beginning to coil loosely in his belly, threatening to constrict at the first hint of additional contact. Amongst the flurry of emotions from the previous night, ranging from bitter resentment to candied reassurances, both Jesse and Gabriel find themselves with a taste for that mutual sweetness once again. Jesse will get what he wants, and Reyes will not stop him—in fact, Reyes wants to devour him wholly. 

McCree’s confidence wavering under the crushing weight of his lived experiences telling him that no good will ultimately come from falling for Reyes, that either he’d be faced with violence or some other force driving them away from each other, his forward motion is stunted and uneven. Ultimately, the motion is carried through, fueled by his own desire beginning to pool uncomfortably in his guts. It’s the equivalent of slamming on the breaks after the brake lines have already been sabotaged. They kiss. 

The connection is gentle, not how the ends of live wires come together to spark, but how the shore meets the waves of a rising tide. It’s a far cry from the tsunami of emotions that Jesse showered Reyes with the night before, crushing and all consuming. Tonight, McCree sings a different siren song, his hands washing over Reyes’ chest and drawing the cold from the metal chestplate. Gabriel presses into his lips, affirming the ministration, covering up all the agonies and inhibitions hidden behind their lips.

They shouldn’t think,  _ can’t,  _ unless they want it to end before they know what true tenderness feels like. At least, in that very moment, that is what it feels like, how it feels to their starving skin.

Matching his energy tit for tat, Reyes offers more space for Jesse to crawl into, which he gladly accepts; his verve like the gift of a coat on a cold evening. Freckles dusted like snowflakes sporadically fallen across his face, they fade with the flush of the cold and become part of the warmth Reyes’ body provides, heating his core from the inside out. McCree desperately needs the slow spread, hands too numb from the bitter wind and body too exhausted from the invasive shivering to appreciate Reyes’ burning fire. It offers a seat in front of the fireplace, but it’s too much warmth and too fast, threatening to send McCree into a shock and shatter him like glass.

Rather, traces of the warmth are extended to him-- Reyes parting his lips in sighs more often than he needs to, wetting his lips even as Jesse’s were starting to glisten in the dim light. It’s tantalizing, working life back into McCree’s body, long since frozen with the cold emanating from his own core. 

It works, McCree responding with diffident kitten licks, mirroring what Reyes had attempted the night before. The inexperience doesn’t irk him as much as he previously imagined; the virginal press of his tongue to Reyes’ bottom lip is as intoxicating as a gateway drug. McCree is young and experimenting, fighting against his parents’ control over him and acting out. His actions are reckless, not letting himself think before he allows Reyes to press their tongues together, sharing that tab of euphoria, lest he falter and back out.

That’s what this feels like, a middle finger to all that his folks have drilled into his head. All the prayers and sermons in his name to rid him of his ugly sin, the damnations he warranted with his behaviors, the beatings and shotgun shells alloted in the name of the Devil’s hold on McCree-- all in vain. Every movement between Reyes and him is sacrilege and every point of contact between them is another stain on the Lord’s name.

Gracelessly, McCree’s fingers scramble at Reyes’ chestplate, nails skittering across the metal as he finds a solid hold on the supple fabric of his sweatshirt. Without thinking, at the desirous tugging on his clothes, Reyes breaks the line between them to try and follow where he thinks Jesse wants him. Shouldering his weight onto one elbow, he lifts himself up just enough so he can swing his leg over McCree’s; with the motion, his knee pad falls dangerously close to the edge of the bedroll, just an inch away from metal meeting ceramic and giving them away.

Stalling, they find themselves breathless, trapped in eye contact. Lowered onto his elbows, heavy body threatening to pin McCree against the bedroll, Reyes swears internally, realizing his misstep. If the way Jesse holds himself, uncertainly, hands bunched up at his chest like a hapless rabbit under starving jaws, doesn’t spell it out clear enough, the glazed-over look of thinly veiled  _ fear  _ tainting the pool of interest does. 

McCree’s eyes are blown wide in surprise, not having anticipated the abrupt progression. It’s not as though he truly fears Reyes-- not even in his bouts of seething anger does McCree feel threatened by his commander-- but the overwhelming helplessness of his newfound position makes him draw in on himself like he was expecting the worst of pains to come with the alien vulnerability. The slightest shift from his superior has him bracing his hands against Reyes’ unyielding chest plate, trying to stop any further movement even as his limbs shiver the slightest degree.

Being caged against the floor and left no easy way out if he were to revoke his consent at that moment, McCree can feel the irrational fear drip into his vein like an insidious IV, and for a brief moment, he wonders if his parents were right. That very notion that this depraved urge he’s been fighting his entire life is nothing but a sin, one with serious repercussions, tries to get a stern hold of him again. His brain backpedals dangerously fast towards the point of no return with the spiralling thoughts that follow; the notion of his damnation, securing his position in hell with this single choice, haunts his eyes.

In that same moment, he believes he’s deserved what’s coming. Whatever pain comes his way, he accepts as his act of repentance. Like a wild dog caught in a trap, he snaps at himself and tears away at parts of his own body to get free from the infernal source of agony that wreaks havoc over his mind with a weak push against Reyes’ chest. 

The sharp edge of need wanes in Reyes as a hand strains to stroke some of the wayward hair out of McCree’s face. Whatever cracked behind those doe-eyes seemed to threaten the entirety of Jesse’s structural integrity, seconds from giving under the pressure of his mind and collapsing in on himself. 

“Is this okay?” Gabriel whispers, not daring to move a micrometer until he knows for certain. It’s a gamble, speaking into such frigid silence, knowing that there will be no excuse for him to cover his ass if they were to be caught at this exact moment, but it’s a gamble that Reyes takes for McCree’s sake.

The gesture, laden with care, shocks McCree from his stupor. It’s an ounce of pressure lost on the snare around his leg, and McCree stares owlishly at Reyes with an unnerving vacancy to him as he picks apart each and every single detail of the other man’s face that he can catch. He finds that there is no anger in his eyes in response to his total shutdown and no resentment for halting the advances laced into his words. Instead, smoothing them over is terrifyingly raw worry, acquitting him of all his preconceived offenses.

Drawing in a deep breath, he realizes that he wasn’t  _ actually  _ confined to the unforgiving tiles of the diner floor, as Reyes simply hovers above him, awaiting his decision. His hackles settle even more as it dawns on him that there is, in fact, a way out-- Reyes is presenting it to him on a silver platter with utmost courtesy and respect.

“I…” McCree breathes out, “I don’t know.” Opening his veins, releasing that vile medicine that works against him, the fear starts to drain from him once it is processed that he is allowed to make an executive decision, that Reyes isn’t going to self-servingly act out of turn. Slowly, it bleeds from his body as his muscles sag against the bedroll and his hands lose their fight.

Sighing in relief, seeing as the impending breakdown is stalled, if not entirely stopped, Reyes moves to sit up and respectfully return to his own bedroll. The yellow of McCree’s fear tasted bitter in his mouth, flashing for him to yield to the traffic of Jesse’s thoughts. Then, paradoxically, his attempts to heed McCree’s warning signs were stopped as the light flipped back to green, and McCree’s hands grab the edges of his chestplate and hold him in place. Reyes blinks through the obscuring darkness, confused, as Jesse doubles down and drags him closer until he’s almost nose to nose with his agent again. 

Understanding washes over him, looking at those wild eyes in the darkness, “do you  _ want  _ this to be okay?” Gabriel’s voice was provoking, delicately so. He bore witness to all the emotions that passed over his face-- from curiosity to lust, then fear to nothingness-- and he can see plain as desert day that the battle inside Jesse was ramping up again. He can only hope, at that moment, to lend a hand and swing it into his favor.

The question clears some of the empty glaze from Jesse’s eyes, reining him in just so as he processes what he was truly asking; the question was direct and cutting, getting through to McCree at his core and helping him pull out what  _ he  _ wants. A subtle nod, and they’re returned to square one, with testing kitten licks and too-frequent pauses for sighs and gasps to allow the other an out if they so desire. They fall into a give-and-take rhythm, easy and smooth as if practiced, but the need swelling desperately in the cowboy’s stomach urges him into recklessness.

As with any boundary that McCree encounters, once he’s found some comfort in it, he’s wont to keep pushing, wanting see how far until the threshold can be stretched until it can no longer be maintained. His leg hooks over Reyes’ thigh, giving him more leverage with which he could temper the kiss. A handful of tentative noises, each to pinpoint where the boundary of “too loud” lays, dribble from Jesse’s lips in the interim between each meeting of the tongue or gentle clash of teeth. 

He’s under no illusion that it is a youthful mistake, so boldly challenging the cadence of their dance, brought on by excessive hunger for contact and acceptance from his superior, but it is laced through with desire to belong to Gabriel, and vice versa. 

Where Jesse’s fingers once were white-knuckled around the edge of Reyes’ chest plate, holding him steady at a safe distance, he slackens some and relinquishes control in order to facilitate further exploration. There are no noises of alarm or impeding growls on Gabriel’s part as one of Jesse’s hands skitters down the narrow space between them to settle at his stomach. In part because he’s overcome with the novelty of McCree touching him so, but also because he suspects the other’s intent is more innocent. The way Jesse’s fingers hesitate around the hem of his sweatshirt, toying with the fabric, considering partaking in the bounty of unexplored skin beneath.

Never one to pussyfoot around, Reyes finds himself sucking in a sharp breath against McCree’s lips as the younger man lets his curiosity take the better of him. There was no warning as those fingers went from worrying the hem of his sweatshirt to grazing against his erection. It’s an unexpected stimulus, momentarily knocking Reyes off his guard as a shiver rolls down his spine. It’s an abrupt reminder that McCree isn’t clueless-- inexperienced and unsure, but clueless? The word doesn’t seem to fit right in Gabriel’s perception of his agent, now not even here. McCree was always the one to know exactly what he wanted and was never the one to give it a second thought, even at his own peril.

Jesse sees the opening, the slightest gap in Gabriel’s defenses that might have spurred him to halt the wandering hand, and he seizes the opportunity. What he finds is a profound sense of power as Reyes’ breath drips out of his mouth like honey in a starved groan. Cupping Reyes in his palm, discovering what exactly his commander was packing under the standoffish mask, brought on both a coil of unease intertwining with the knot of desire in his stomach and a staggering sense of control. Reyes’ eyes flutter shut and his stance widens just so to allow McCree all the room he needed-- encouraging in the silent language they’ve created in the confines of checkered tiles and grease stains.

The whisper of something greater fills McCree with confidence as though it were a stranger’s purr at a bar, granting him self-assurance he can normally only find in shot glasses and beer bottles. The effect he has on Reyes shows in the way he stops trying to steal McCree’s attention and instead turns to nosing his cheek, straying down to his jaw, panting against the stubble on his neck.

McCree himself can’t help the small, wanton noise from escaping, even devoid of any attention to himself. He feels drunk off the fact that Gabriel is allowing him to do this. Growing overzealous, he gives a testing squeeze, pushing and pushing against Reyes’ boundaries, wanting nothing more than to collapse those flimsy walls and be allowed in.

All the barriers that Gabriel had constructed, intent on maintaining that steady pace McCree’s mental state demands and ensuring that the young man doesn’t rush himself too fast with too much, have caved in. There’s nothing he can do to stop himself as inhibitions slip loose and fall away like his shuttered breaths, nothing to stop from indulging this one time at McCree’s egging.

Before McCree himself can find room under Reyes’ skin, he has to be at home in his own. Reyes’ is too warm, too open, as though he were an arctic hare trapped in the savanna. He has yet to shed his winter coat as his body is not ready for the sun.

It’s an honest mistake-- in an effort to stifle the groan that wells up in his throat, Reyes trades it for the instinctual roll of his hips following the building rhythm of McCree’s hand. It’s telling, being unable to restrain his physical reactions under Jesse’s ministrations, portraying just how hot he’s gotten Reyes blood to boil. 

The movement, no matter how slight, brings their bodies dangerously close, and McCree’s hand working over Reyes’ clothed member fills the space between them just enough. McCree’s whole body jolts with the abrupt friction he receives, like an adrenaline shot to the heart, sobering him up in an instant.

Hand recoiling as though it were burned, he’s not sure what to do with himself, as he becomes acutely aware of every slight movement between both bodies. Breaking through his lust-addled haze, Reyes raises his head from the crook of McCree’s neck to peer at him, at first trying to piece together what happened to cause the cessation before he finds the shock written on McCree’s face. 

A prolonged span of eye contact settles between them--too long, in Jesse’s mind--as emotional turmoil again comes to a peak. The next morning’s thoughts collide with and wash over him, pulling him beneath the surf again and battering him. The acrid tang of Reyes’ disapproval layered heavy on his tongue, choking him like cottonmouth after a night of too many drinks and too few inhibitions. Not only is he pinned down by the overwhelming need to take what he wants, so overcome as to be paralyzed by his want, but by the dogged desire to prove himself worthy of lying with his commander. 

In the stuttered stillness of Jesse’s motions, fingers curling in the swath of the fabric at the base of his belly, the slightest degree of frustration bleeds into Gabriel’s consciousness. He expects McCree to withdraw into his shell again uneasily, his hands recoiling away from Reyes’ form as his passion doubles back into doubt. Nevertheless, it’s a bit of a shock to Gabriel’s system when the cooler kiss of the diner air kisses his underbelly rather than the heat of Jesse’s hand.

It takes courage to say no in the heat of the moment, when the air is laden with expectation and want, especially when that mutual desire is tangled up with their dynamic of commander and agent. It’s commendable that Jesse is able to work it out with himself, which is why Reyes takes such little exasperation from the tease. A crease still forms in Reyes’ brow, but it is not as intense as it would be on any other terms. 

Ever watchful of Gabriel’s expression, though, even the slightest of frown sets him on edge. In the low-light setting, it’s hard to determine whether the displeasure is rooted in irritation and worry. As a precaution, perhaps signalling his submission, his gaze drifts away from the commander’s as Reyes’ frown only deepens.

Gabriel moves to grant a bit more space between them, instead settling on his knees and bracing on his forearms, giving the impression that it was the aftermath of some tender moment as opposed to the heat of a passionate one. Or whatever this arrangement was, be it passionate or frenzied.

A minute passes like an hour, with each of them caught up in themselves and a pervasive sense that this ill-vented sublimation was indicative of something more intricate between them, and Gabriel is the one to make the first move. He reverts to their position prior to Jesse’s foray into the unknown, behind Jesse with the younger boy slotted easily against him. Reyes can still feel the energy thrumming through his agent’s body, eager and ready as a racehorse at the gate, but it softens as Jesse relaxes again.

The awkwardness of the encounter dissipates after a while, but swells again with Jesse’s words.

“Sorry,” he says, timid and uncertain. It is met with no verbal response, and the only acknowledgement he gets for his words is a pat on the hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We promise it's a slow burn. It's just going to be a painfully stretched-out one. The next chapter is going to be a lot more action-heavy, now that general groundwork is laid out! ♡
> 
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)   
>  [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)


	4. Torrential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a loss of words, indignation burning his face at the heavy dismissal, McCree can only blink in apparent shock as all the special treatment dares to suggest otherwise. McCree has half the mind to throw last night back in Reyes’ face but the words die on his tongue as he tries to work the scattered recollection into something pointed and damaging.
> 
> “Fuck you,” Jesse settles on spitting. 
> 
> For an agonizing moment, Reyes doesn’t react. McCree thinks that he’s about to be the one to break Reyes’ clean streak of corporal discipline. Cocking his head, edging that much closer to Jesse’s face, Reyes growls in unadulterated ire.
> 
> “You’re not special," Reyes grits out, “you’re the same as every other agent."

Reyes wakes before the sun. The small snippet of landscape he can see through the diner windows gives him that much information; the sun hadn’t yet fully peeked her head over the canyon gorge, had not yet shared her warm blush with the sands of the desert and those that dwell within it. For once, he’s finally gotten enough sleep, fulfilled his body’s craving for rest, no doubt because Jesse had urged them to bed so early and then opted out of anything too intense. 

He reminisces on the night for a moment, and though his memories are faded around the edges, clouded with eagerness and desire, he vividly recalls the warm wetness of the other’s lips and the borderline-painful pressure nagging for attention between their hips. He’s not one to dwell on such short-lived encounters as a rule of thumb, but the concept of being Jesse’s real first continues to pique his interest even though their activities were cut short. 

Instinctively, in an attempt to combat the pins and needles that had overtaken his legs overnight and to avoid the uncomfortable conversation that would ensue should Jesse see the predicament he’s gotten himself into by reviewing the night before, he does his best to pull away from his agent. In his movement, though, he’s met with the resistance of the boy’s still-unconscious weight beside him, impeded by an armful of him. Their legs are tangled together, so much so that it would be impossible for Reyes to extract himself without waking Jesse. 

Rather than the first thing that should have come to mind--the inherent danger of not being able to immediately move should a threat arise overnight--he’s instead occupied by the question of how he would handle the delicate topic of his residual excitement. With Jesse’s halting affection the previous night, though not something Reyes is aggrieved over, the lines of acceptable versus unacceptable are clouded, made turbid by Reyes’ wading kicking up mud and debris from the river bed. It’s unclear whether the objects brushing past him are innocuous reeds or water moccasins awaiting a misstep on Gabriel’s part to strike. 

Jesse is still comfortably resting beside Reyes, lashes fanned out against his cheeks innocently and head pillowed atop his arms. Even with his gentle rousing as he tries less subtly to pull away, McCree’s only response is a half-asleep murmur as he again fills what miniscule space Reyes had put between them as a buffer. Resignedly, he rests his head on his palm, propped up on his elbow to get a better glimpse of Jesse in the bluish light of dawn. He accepts whatever consequences are to come, and cradles the boy closer in his arms. Several realizations hit Reyes in quick succession.

One, that even from the short distance they are apart, Jesse’s scent is inebriating. Tobacco and honey-vanilla and old leather all come to mind, but there are subtler notes that Reyes can’t quite put a word on. He’d been so preoccupied, whether it be with the stress of the day or being too focused on his desire, that he hadn’t yet stopped to take note of anything more than Jesse’s behaviors and expressions.

Two, that the cowboy snores ever-so-softly, and only on every few exhales. It’s a soft noise, more akin to purring or a well-oiled engine idling than a stereotypical snore. And it entirely encapsulates Gabriel’s attention for longer than he would ever admit.

And three, that he has allowed Jesse far too much real estate in his mind. Initially, Jesse’s visits were infrequent and far-between, more of a neutral curiosity or general goodwill towards one of the agents he’d taken under his wing. He’s obediently come and gone with a neat duffel bag of his personal belongings, as transient as any guest and leaving no sign of his coming or going. As the years passed and Jesse had proven his worth ten times over, the preconceived image he’d had in his head of the boy being a drifter, a nobody, had grown stale and inaccurate, and had been adjusted accordingly. The visits to Reyes grew more frequent, and their duration longer. Jesse has begun to rifle through the medication cabinets and reorganize the coffee table. He has claimed a side of the bed. It’s a sorry state for a commander to be in with a subordinate, much less a subordinate with an unbridled fear of intimacy.

McCree is soon to rise as well. Reyes’ movement isn’t the sole thing that woke him up, but it contributes to the slow process of his waking. Legs straightening and stretching, he notes the commander’s shifting behind him even through the cotton of sleep clouding his thoughts. He takes it in stride, and rolls onto his back to get a better look at Reyes. His intent is to slot his thigh underneath Gabriel’s, but the older man jerks away.

His knee comes to still the pressing insistence of Jesse’s leg, knee guard digging gently into the meat of his thigh as he keeps the kid at arm’s length. A sleepy frown creases Jesse’s brow, unaware of Gabriel’s predicament, and he resists the buffer, still trying to worm his way beneath. 

A scowl takes over Reyes’ face, not indicating irritation or annoyance, but focus on maintaining the gap between them. He isn’t looking to take a knee to the groin, and he also isn’t looking to startle the younger. It’s another hand on the wheel, preventing the car from colliding with a brick wall. He rests his hand on Jesse’s leg, insisting for him to back down. 

However Reyes attempts to shield him, evidently the memo doesn’t stick. Jesse huffily shifts, trying to regain contact, and he crowds into the space he so desperately desires to take up. His attention is caught by the flutter of lashes on Reyes’ part, and a steady inhale as the older man holds back any unsavory noises, and spurs the processing that he hadn’t struck any piece of armor. In conjunction with the general idea of what Gabriel’s packing he’d gotten last night, the reaction is all he needs to piece together what he’s pressed himself against. His face floods with red. 

Of course, it’s all a consequence of the contact they’d shared the previous night, a remnant of the fervidity of their actions. He feels almost like a child realizing that his actions don’t exist in a vacuum, that whatever intimacy he shares with or withholds from Reyes in a night might bleed into the next day. As much as his body mourns the added heat from Reyes, Jesse separates. He thinks he may hear a disappointed sigh from Gabriel, but pays no heed on the off-chance that his sleep-addled and now confused consciousness is playing tricks on him, and shifts to get ready for the day rather than explain precisely what’s going on in his head. 

It’s that reluctance to share his thoughts, only offering superficial background of his life experiences in the illusion of being vulnerable, that keeps Reyes on his toes. He glances over the boy for any signs of impending outburst or panic, any indication that their exchange has dealt another blow to his foundations, while simultaneously scavenging for any hint of curiosity or desire in his demeanor. He’s stonewalled with McCree’s disengagement, unable to make heads or tails of what’s going on in the depths of his thoughts. The chances of Jesse being fine and being in crisis are about equal to that of a fair coin, leaving Reyes without any plan or recourse. 

He permits Jesse’s withdrawal, though watches intently for any indication that he’s needed for reassurance or that he needs to remove himself from the situation. Reyes is only offered the alarmed look of a prey animal falling under headlights for a brief moment, before Jesse wrangles it into a neutral expression. It’s a bit of a punch to the gut, that fear latent in Jesse’s face, the implication that Reyes wouldn’t back off even though he’s made it clear that he’s not interested in sex at that moment. In an uncharacteristic moment of pessimism towards one of his agent’s progress, Reyes fears Jesse’s doomed to be haunted by the trauma of his past. That he’d not allow himself the exorcism of emotional attachment and instead allow the wound to fester. 

His excitement fades without any stimulation to drive it, and with Jesse’s hurriedly excusing himself once he’d clasped his armor back on—much faster, thanks to Reyes’ instruction—he’s not given the opportunity to properly address the minor misstep. It’s the first of McCree’s actions, or rather the subtext of his actions, that pick at his nerves just so, such a frivolous offense that it’d make him seem too sensitive if he were to address it. 

He rises a few minutes after Jesse, not only giving him ample time to get a hold of his emotions that are apparently already ready to boil over, but also not to step on any toes as Fletcher begins rousing everyone for the morning. 

Each of the agents settle into breakfast with their morning rations, aside from Jesse, who abstains from the admittedly repulsive MREs that field soldiers are provided for as long as he can before he grows too weak to function, and Reyes, who instead occupies his time checking in with the leaders of the other squads. 

It’s all routine; Oberon’s unit already setting out to their new position of interest, located just north of the diner in another snaking valley of eroded walls and rust. They are due to start evaluating the supposedly abandoned settlements and scout for any telltale signs of recent migration.

“Morning, Oberon. Everything alright?” he asks, hands busy on his tablet.

“Morning sir! Everything’s right as rain over here,” Oberon responds, a pep in her step by the way her smile carried through the mic. It’s infectious, and in the privacy of the booth he’s found for himself, he allows it to translate over with the teensiest quirk of his lip. 

It’s something he’s always admired about her-- optimism. In the face of hostile environments and life-or-death situations, she’s reliable in a vast array of ways. Sure-shot, happy-go-lucky, and one helluva improviser. In comparison to McCree’s fire, uncontrollable like a wildfire, Ella’s fire was a comforting warmth.

Maybe it was his knack for picking up the young ones with heat in their bellies and fire in their eyes, fit as an antithesis to his cold, calculating methodology. A balance he seemed to subconsciously strive for.

“Anything noteworthy?”

“Not yet! Should be about a half hour before we reach the village,” she says, before the sound of a backpack is heard being shifted. As a second thought, Ella adds: “It’s weird! This section of the canyon is quiet,” she remarks offhandedly, “wasn’t this quiet the other day, but we weren’t in this area.”

Where Reyes was scribbling revisions into Morrison’s mission statements, his hand falters and stops with the hard-light pen tip pressing into the screen. What seemed like an innocent observation to Oberon is an unsettling sign to Reyes. He doesn’t respond for several moments.

“Keep your ears to the ground,” he says simply, his tone flatlining. In his experience, abject silence is never a good sign. Animals can tell when a predator is moving through the world, quieting to watch the dangerous creature stalk its prey. It doesn’t matter if the animal is of that ecosystem or not-- often a man is as dangerous if not more so than a wild tiger-- the world knows when there is something amiss.

“Of course, sir,” Oberon says, her back a little straighter at the ghost of warning in Reyes’ altered tone, “I’ll report any other abnormalities in this region as we get further in.”

“Good. Talk soon.” The line disconnects as Oberon returns her focus on the wide world around her, and Reyes in turn narrows his attention on the meticulous game plans he has laid out before him. The silence rings loud in Reyes’ ears, making it a little harder to concentrate on Morrison’s many lines of asinine scripting.

It’s the first day he’s allowed to act freely, and he’s going to make the most of it while they’re all just sitting around. A nagging feeling accompanies the ear worm of worry, suggesting that their vacation time is soon to come to an end. It’s rare that they get this much free reign of a region before the world starts pushing back against their presence, like a body rejecting a bad meal. In all fairness, that is close to what they are-- or rather, they are the body’s reflex to eject the toxicity. They aren’t the ones to receive pats on the back and glowing praise from the locals for exterminating the pests plaguing their society as what they do is often not as pretty as hero tales. In their own way, they  _ are _ indigestible, and the stomach of the small communities they infiltrate tends to ache and cramp awkwardly with their arrival. It doesn’t take long before the throat closes up.

Morrison likes to paint it pretty, make it into a story of knights and princesses and not the very real drug lords, corrupt politicians, and arms dealers they have to deal with. The mission statements he wrote up, edging closer to prose and poetry than tactical instruction in the grandiosity, simply weren’t functional. They’ve managed thus far as nothing has happened that called for his heroic plans to be put into effect.

Luckily, when Reyes lost the battle of keeping McCree away from the mission, he managed to wedge his foot in the door before it slammed shut and bought him some free will. On the third day, if there was next to no activity warranting heavy involvement, then Reyes can alter the plans whichever way he deemed fit. As it stands,  _ all  _ of it is subject to change. Each page of the document has extensive notes etched into the margins, waiting for the moment they can be officialized. 

Nothing can steal Reyes’ attention as he works on revisions, and McCree certainly tried. Even with the company of his squadmates and a deck of cards, he was still feeling the drastic loss of stimulation. Back on base, every day was filled to the brim with something or another, whether it was running simulations, advanced training exercises, or even academics. Hell, McCree finds himself staring at the grimy counter space thinking that for once, he’d rather take book work over sitting around uselessly.

The excess anxiety that came with seeing the iron-red sands and towering canyon walls once more has faded into a dull ache like a bruise on his leg. Every now and then, he’ll find himself rolling onto it and grimacing, but it has grown yellow and green with time, the pang of discomfort fading into forgettable white noise.

Even with the events of last night weighing heavy in his mind, McCree is still itching to get Reyes’ attention. As the source of every gnawing thought that he’s fighting tooth and nail to repress, it should be a given that he’ll want a wide berth around his commander. Nonetheless, he still garners for his attention in every appropriate way possible-- small talk, invitations to more card games, even a daring touch to his bicep, squeezing where the shoulder pad ended and into the thick muscle of his arm.

No response, or at most, a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement and a nonplussed look. The boredom is wearing at Jesse like a rat on a wire, bound to snap at any point as the threats of spiraling into the rabbit hole of his insecurities and thoughts begin to reach a critical point.

A couple slip through, as though he were trying to keep the ocean on the other side of a door; no matter how tight the screws are, how locked it is, there is still no way to stop the occasional droplet from slipping through a crack.

Reyes was likely ignoring him for how McCree blue-balled him last night after leading him on. It was quite clear that his commander was frustrated, scowling at the tablet in his hands and ignoring the entire world around him in favor of his work. Given how unceremonious the going ons have been, McCree can’t fathom that it was anything else  _ but  _ his doing that caused the dramatic scowl. 

That thought in particular weighs heavy on his mind, the door bowing against the pressure of the ocean threatening to drown him. The notion of being a nuisance, more of a bother than anything else.

As fast as the thought enters his head, he waves it out as though it hadn’t already rooted and makes up his mind. Hankering for some attention, he puts in one last effort to get it. The frustration welling up in his throat was from being blanked by Reyes time and time again, comorbid with the intrusive thoughts threatening to spill into his lungs if he didn’t get fresh air sooner.

Sliding off the stool and making his way over to where Reyes was propped against the door frame of the dining room, he doesn’t even have it in him to be curious about what was so important in Gabriel’s hands. With his hip cocked, he jams his thumbs into his belt and tilts his head.

“What’s the deal, Gabe?” he asks, not stifling the irritation coating his voice, flashing like a dagger.

“Reyes,” his commander states bluntly, not offering him the courtesy of a spare glance. The pointed correction feels like a splash of acid in his face, and McCree glowers as he draws himself up to Reyes.

“What’s the deal,  _ Reyes? _ ” Jesse bites out, the venom dripping off the ends of his words. Reyes doesn’t budge, not faltering over the glinting danger in his tone, unwavering in the striking distance of McCree’s displaced anger.

“You’re getting on my nerves, McCree. I don’t have time for this,” Reyes says plainly. He’s trying his damndest not to rise to McCree’s demonstrated level of aggression and the challenge presented with it but he’s exasperated as is. Desperately, he wants the kid to go back to minding his own business, losing at cards with someone else.

The insinuation that Reyes was referring to  _ him, _ that he has no time for  _ him _ forces indignation into his throat like bile. Rising and eating at his protective lining until the putrid anger of festering anxieties spill out, his anger hits faster than the nausea of his insecurities-- that Reyes got bored of his flippant desires and shut-downs-- and he can’t stop himself as he seethes.

“Time for  _ what?” _

Reyes finally looks at him, stoic as ever. 

“Your games, McCree.”

At the moment, he couldn’t care less about how McCree feels, to which side the pendulum of his sexuality has swung. He’s hyper-focused on the now inevitable attack on one of his units, not offering any residency to his agent’s gross ignorance, blind of the bigger picture. Now that he found loose skin to dwell in, he won’t leave Reyes alone.

Part of it is Reyes’ fault, he knows that-- allowing him into his space with a stuffed-full duffel bag of personal belongings. It’s taken to sitting at the foot of his bed, half unpacked. Each time, more items disappear from its many pockets and emerge as a clutter in between his own items. 

With no energy to untangle their possessions from one another, he doesn’t have any to even consider if it is something he wanted to do in the first place, or if he decided that their items look better together as a mix-matched set of oddities.

Right now, it makes for an eyesore.

“What, you’re too good to even say my name anymore?” McCree bites. He doesn’t take to the tersely-enforced professionalism well, letting it be well known how much it’s eating at him. In his mind, cluttered but organized to him all the same, he sees Reyes’ attempts to straighten up the space between them as action born out of shame, as if a guest made an offhand comment about their domestic chaos.

Invading Reyes’ space, intimately close as he can feel the angry sigh against his lips, he sets his shoulders almost in a taunt. Same trick as before, pushing and prying at Reyes’ finite reserve of patience until he taps into the last of it. Easily, his commander matches him-- tipping his chin down to look squarely at his agent, he faces him bodily with a single scuff of his boot against the worn tiles.

With no honey to make it easier to swallow, Gabriel snarls down at him.

“Listen,  _ Jesse _ .” McCree cannot stifle the uneasy twinge of his jaw clicking shut, fearing for a moment that he had been severely underestimating the depth of Reyes’ restraint. “You don’t have the right to act like you’re more important than anyone else,” Reyes says slowly and evenly, not having to yell to attract the attention of the entire diner. The dangerous timbre of his voice, charged like a cloud laden with pent up lightning and rumbling like thunder, is louder than any shout either of them could have bellowed.

At a loss of words, indignation burning his face at the heavy dismissal, McCree can only blink in apparent shock as for the past year, that’s not how Reyes was acting. All the special treatment-- the intemperance of patience and allowance of explosive outbursts-- dares to suggest otherwise. McCree has half the mind to throw last night back in Reyes’ face, if just to prove a point _ ,  _ but the words die on his tongue as he tries to work the scattered recollection into something pointed and damaging.

“Fuck you,” Jesse settles on spitting. 

Not a peep is heard throughout the diner, no one daring to move an hairsbreadth as they watched the pair. Even the thought of intervening was out of the picture as no one was brave enough to try and break the tension between them, thicker than a cable of steel and on the verge of snapping under the insurmountable pressure.

For an agonizing moment, Reyes doesn’t react. McCree thinks that he’s about to be the one to break Reyes’ clean streak of corporal discipline. Cocking his head, edging that much closer to Jesse’s face, Reyes growls in unadulterated ire.

“You’re not special.” A lump forms in McCree’s throat that he almost chokes on, visibly recoiling just so. Reyes doesn’t let up-- he holds his glower, sharp as daggers, to McCree, claiming the inch of territory opened up with the impact of his words. “You’re the same as every other agent,” Reyes finishes with a hiss.

The words hardly leave his mouth before a sharp chime permeates through the air as both Reyes and Captain Fletcher instinctively move to activate their earpieces. The diner snaps out of their stupor, perking up at the bell like a pack of conditioned dogs, looking for the stimulation. It’s the sound of dinner bells to the group of hungry war dogs, rearing for any entertainment aside from a bent and stained pack of cards. It’s an emergency alert, one that not only comes through to their commander, but to every high-ranking official in the unit of choice of the sender.

Gabriel sheds the hostile eye contact in favor of looking off to the side, gathering up all of his attention to receive the call. McCree shies away from his commander with the distraction, but not before he receives one last glare that leaves him with his tail between his legs.

“Commander--” a voice breaks in. The communication line is clipped and fragmented by the clatter of open fire and wind brushing past the microphone, obscuring the Sergeant’s words in the abject sounds of action. A fractured train of thought is laid out, and vaguely pieced together through the skirmish painted the picture of a blown cover. Static crackle divides up Oberon’s words. “--were ambushed--no option but to engage--”

An acute understanding of the weight of the situation dawns on Jesse, and the color drains from his cheeks, leaving him pallid and sick-looking. It offers context for Reyes’ hairpin trigger temper, easily matching Jesse’s anger and returning it back to him. Granted greater perspective, he realizes that the Commander did have a point; it was peak selfishness for him to badger Reyes, demanding his full attention as if they were lounging on vacation rather than on the front lines of a mission. 

More exchange of fire occasionally breaks up the rustle of the wind over the communication line, each pop of the trigger offering more ambiguity as to the status of each of the agents under fire. 

“Oberon, position?” Reyes barks.

“Pending! Estimated twenty hostiles, heavy engagement.”

“Requesting back-up?”

“Negative, sir! We can handle this,” Oberon’s voice sounds through the pitched battle, holding an enthusiastic lilt to it even in face of the possibility of death. The fire lit in her eyes is audible even over the commotion, eager to see some action after lying dormant within the earth-toned prison of the canyon walls. Her words seemingly light a fire under the feet of the agents, now itching to join as well if the shuffling of uniforms is anything to go by. 

“Heard. Fall back to my position.” 

As Gabriel speaks, his gaze drifts to connect with Jesse’s. Everything he wants to say, a deluge of apologies or pleads for forgiveness lays at the tip of McCree’s tongue--anything at all to try and make reparations for his ignorance--but nothing comes out. The words lodge in his trachea like a gut knife hooked into his soft flesh. 

“You’re going to Santiago,” Reyes says coldly, voice level in such a way that an implicit threat lay beneath the surface.  _ Or else _ . Every line in the Commander’s body was tense, his forbearance worn down to the rotors, and tangibly so. 

Jesse nods numbly and hustles to collect his belongings, anxiety buzzing in his teeth, as Reyes’ eyes instead sweep over the unit. Harshness pruned some of the unit’s enthusiasm, the energy instead morphing into subtle apprehension. The Commander’s attention turning on them pulls them up from their slouch like puppets being tugged to attention at the strings. 

“We won’t be joining this fight, but there’s another on the way now they know we’re here. Agent McCree is going to Sergeant Santiago’s unit to keep his presence unknown.” 

Given the explanations, the agents disperse to back up what belongings weren’t already gathered, and Reyes glances to find the accompanying captain.

Fletcher, perched by the windows to watch from a comfortable distance, perks up under Reyes’ attention. Tension is drawn into his shoulders as he gauges Gabriel’s mood. He’s not as ready to come under fire of his superior’s anger as certain other agents are. 

“Captain, I’d like for you to escort McCree to Santiago. Make good use of those birds.”

In spite of the cocktail of empathetic shame and embarrassment on Jesse’s behalf, watching him get torn to pieces and left to sulk, Fletcher’s eyes light up at the opportunity to field test his creations. He offers a half-nod and hops to his feet, already giddy at the prospect of a real-time assessment of one of his newer bots. 

Off to the side, in proximity to but not necessarily piled with the rest of the towering boxes of equipment, are three mock bird cages cramped together unceremoniously in the corner. Laying dormant inside are sheet metal husks, formed in the image of some of nature’s greatest feats of engineering, waiting patiently to be given purpose. Sharp angles and beady false eyes flash in the fluorescent light. Fletcher coos soft greetings to the intimidating forms of the slumbering automatons as he approaches, though they fall uselessly on unhearing ears.

These bird bots could be considered Fletcher’s pet project of sorts, spoiled with more attention than any self-respecting engineer would find reasonable to provide any one creation. He scoops up the falconry glove that was left beside the cages and opens the door of the cage closest to himself.

Back of his knuckles ghosting across the chest of the bot, it thrums to life. Eyes widening and chest subtly expanding and contracting in faux breath, it straightens itself and drinks in the new environment. Upon his gentle insistence, the bird obediently hobbles forth, stepping up to perch onto the Captain’s forearm with its impressive talons vice-gripping the glove as an anchor as it blinks at the squad now looking on.

In the morning light filtering through the aged grime through the windows, Fletcher’s careful craftsmanship is on plain display. His extensive research of local flora and fauna is reflected in the meticulously-painted petals of aluminum masquerading as feathers and hyper-realistic proportions, granting the bot the spitting image of a golden eagle. 

As Jesse rises to a stand from behind the counter, his vision can’t help but catch on the golden hues of the creature perched on Fletcher’s arm. The mere image of the regal crown of feathers adorning its head and the piercing yellow of its eyes are enough to throw him back into his childhood for a moment. For a brief moment, he’s lost in the rough and tumble of the wake, head pulled back under and thrust into the memories of innumerable hours logged tracking the birds as they preside over the desert, leaving a trail of feathers and rodent carcasses in their wake. Nostalgia is a sufficient enough panacea for his shame, soothing over the sunburn-like heat coloring his cheeks.

Shouldering his now-packed bag, the cowboy casts a glance at Reyes. Already delegating tasks and giving instruction, the Commander is even more intimidating to Jesse now that he wields his authority blind to favoritism. Rounding the counter, McCree hopes to find some shelter in Fletcher’s company, akin to a child hiding in his older brother’s room to avoid further persecution from an enraged parent.

Fletcher murmurs a small, “hello, Amber,” to the bird, earning him a flutter of faux tail feathers in response. He doesn’t notice Jesse’s approach until Amber offers a squeaky chirp and fixes its gaze on the newcomer. The Captain follows his bird’s gaze and turns to face Jesse as he approaches.

“You’re ready? I figure Reyes wants us out before Sergeant Oberon gets here, just in case they’re followed,” Fletcher says, his tone normal as ever. He’s keenly aware of the unease lacquering McCree’s expression, hardening his brow and bunching his shoulders tensely. “Getting caught would make all this shuffling around a little pointless.” 

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles, worrying at his lip in absence of the ever-present cigar that usually occupies his mouth. One hand absently checks for the revolver at his hip while the other fishes another cigar from his pocket to fulfill his fixation.

Reyes, on the other hand, doesn’t look at him, not even sparing the boy that he had shared affections with not hours before a second glance. Anger still boils in Reyes’ stomach, the normally-clear water of his emotions tainted with grit and mud kicked up carelessly by McCree. His jaw clicks shut as he dismisses his team, anger now making him more inclined to stand idly by rather than allow McCree more real estate in his already over-crowded mind. It takes a few moments to remember that he ought to contact Santiago ahead of time, to brief her on recent events and to let her know that she’s got precious cargo coming her way.

In the dry heat of the desert morning, Amber lifts itself from the leather of Andrew’s glove with a thundering beat of wings. It catches the wind rolling lazily through the canyon with ease, assisted in its initial ascent with a thrust of the Captain’s arm. 

A wide grin cracks Fletcher’s face, eyes gleaming with pride like a father witnessing his child’s first few tentative steps. An element of awe lays in each of their expressions as the bot effortlessly catches an updraft, eager to ride the thermal as long as it would allow. Even from short distances, the bird’s skillful dance into the atmosphere implies an existence composed of flesh and tendon rather than metal and technology. At altitude, it wheels above their heads and emits a mirthful cry, which to the layman sounds merely like a bird of prey celebrating its existence, but is in fact to notify its handler that it has reached appropriate heights.

As Amber begins its surveillance of the land, Fletcher extends his hand in a flourish to courteously request that McCree lead on.

As one who wears a similar mask, Fletcher’s impervious positive attitude was as transparent as a ghost with no substance to it. Even with a sure air over him as he closely trails McCree, the tension he feels is mirrored in Andrew’s shoulders as they pick out what is gravel crunching underfoot and what is gunfire in the vast stretches of canyon.

Migrating towards Santiago’s position, it becomes unclear if they are edging closer to the gunfire or if the new position merely opens up the world around them, clear and unfettered with blue skies ranging for miles in every direction. Even without the rainstorm spurring them on, they make good time passing by the cliff faces and overhead train tracks.

Dark visor tinted like transition sunglasses, Fletcher is predominantly focused on the raw data that Amber is collecting, as well as trying not to trip over his own two feet like a child reading in the school hallways between bells. At times, the reverberation of gunfire richochetting throughout the gorge makes it seem as though they’re about to turn the corner and discover the battle at their feet, but Fletcher’s face never gives way to any urgency. Had the automaton caught any movement warranting suspicion drifting towards their position, they would be long gone before trouble blew in.

The air stings with the abject lack of moisture as they trudge towards the worn down gas station, giving no hint as to the torrential rains that fell upon the desert just two nights prior. McCree’s forearms itch as sand, whipped into the air by the strengthened post-storm air currents, assaults every bit of exposed skin. He is fortunate enough to have kept the habit of adorning a serape no matter the environment, finding it practical for more than one biome. Andrew, alternately, with his neck and arms almost entirely exposed in preparation for the heat, failed to consider the general hostility of the desert.

With one of McCree’s hypervigilant glances back at his captain, he realizes that the other man is now watching him in turn, thin lips pressed together and gaze skating around past McCree’s eyes. It takes a considerable amount of will-power to stifle the sharp laughter that results from the connection between Fletcher and the ramshackle gas station coming into view. He steers them near the building, taking some pity on the other man. 

The shade the building provides feels nice even to Jesse, the one most acclimated to the extreme heat and blistering sun. Andrew-- far more accustomed to the climate of northern Europe-- heaved a great sigh of relief as he slouched against the sheet metal garage door. Eyeing him as he tipped his canteen to his lips, McCree ponders whether or not Fletcher will even tan, or if he’ll skip straight to burning. The captain’s cheeks were flush with the sun and the exposure was pulling all of his freckles to the surface like an antithesis of the night sky and his studies.

Catching the stare as he finds his composure again, Fletcher wipes his mouth with the back of his hand even as he is yet to put the canteen away. There’s no trace of indignation as he returns the gaze, nor sheepishness. 

“Did you know an eagle can see a rabbit from almost two miles away?” Fletcher says, seemingly random out of context, but reassuring. It’s his odd way of saying they were safe at the moment, hidden in the overhang of the raggedy gas station, under the watchful eye of the golden eagle haloed by the exposing sun. McCree must be that easy to read, as his shoulders drop their tension and he shuffles where he is standing against the wall. All the response he provides is a noncommittal hum into the lip of his canteen. 

It’s all the recognition that Fletcher needs, as he beams to himself and his encyclopedic knowledge without another word. There’s a stretch of silent minutes between them where McCree finds himself confused, not sure if he was relaxed now that he was out of the diner and away from Reyes’ suffocating presence, or anxious because he was out in the open  _ without  _ his commander. It’s a waltz in his mind, a back-and-forth dance that never seems to end. As the tether of their hands stretches between them, McCree finds he can breathe once more, but all the breath he can pull in is panicked and unfulfilling as he fears losing his balance. As the space between them closes like a stitch, the heat is suffocating and McCree grits his teeth against the encroaching claustrophobia even as he relishes the support, promising him that he won’t topple over.

Neglecting to take another drink, McCree screws his canteen shut and hangs it on his utility belt just as Fletcher does. Off in his own mind, McCree doesn’t catch the hint that Fletcher was recovered and ready to move on by the obvious jingling of his equipment and the scuffle of his boots across asphalt. It took a gentle call of his name for him to come back down to Earth, bashfully simpering as he hopped to.

As they start towards the gate splitting the gorge in two, McCree realizes that their footsteps seem louder than ever. The distant gunfire has died down to nothing but ominous wind, devoid of all bird call save for Amber’s desolate mimicry. It only stokes the low burning embers of anxiety in McCree’s stomach, as there is no definitive way to interpret the silence of the canyon-- it could mean that they were overpowered and crushed as any trespasser on Deadlock territory, or they managed to hold their ground and retreat to Reyes’ position in, more or less, one piece. At least the symphony of crackling and pops like a campfire told of their continued efforts.

There have been scenarios where the executive decision to deprive the ground agents of a communication channel with other superiors not their own was a good thing. Even if McCree was never caught in one of those sticky situations himself, he’s heard other agents’ stories; kidnappings and interrogations, wiretapping, and ransom deals delivered over stolen communication lines-- narrowing down who said agent can communicate with prevents a plethora of information from leaking, even if it does expose the unit of origin. Here, it’s more of an annoyance; the uncertainty causes him to crank his neck back and glance at Fletcher every so often, expecting to receive horrible news that never came.

After what seemed like hours of staring at repetitive cliff formations and glittering sands, Fletcher finally deactivates his visor and blinks his bleary eye at the open sky.

“Almost there, we’re in the clear,” Fletcher mumbles, more to himself than to Jesse. Regardless, McCree still hums an affirmative out of respect to his captain and continues on. He gets about five paces away before he realizes that Andrew had stopped in his tracks, arm awkwardly held up as he scanned the sky.

A shadow passes overhead, travelling fast as it disappears over Fletcher’s shoulder and the source becomes evident. A great, thundering gust of wind nearly knocks the hat off his head as Amber swoops in to perch on Fletcher’s glove. She’s nearly glowing from her time in the sky, content after a good test run to settle on Andrew’s forearm and shake the metal feathers loose of any accumulated dust.

With an affectionate rub to her beak, McCree and him fall into step as they peak the hill crest leading into the valley where the saloon was located. Santiago was tucked comfortably in the shadows of the saloon, standing in the doorway and awaiting the arrival with an air of joy.

Fletcher nearly skips down to Sergeant Santiago, supposedly not used to the extra heap of metal throwing his balance. Amanda grins lopsidedly as she watches the young man come close to losing his footing several times before he staggered to a stop in front of her.

“Afternoon, Andy. Jesse,” Santiago says, her grin projected through her voice as McCree lags behind. He knows that it wasn’t necessarily their safe arrival that caused the smile, but the reunion with Fletcher. They’re fond of each other, although McCree hasn’t caught any good word about what their status with each other really is. Despite no solid idea about their relationship, it’s easy to see that the distance created by being superiors in a covert-ops organization truly makes the heart grow fonder.

“And who might this be?” she coos. Santiago can’t help but stare at the impressive automaton perching on Fletcher’s forearm, as she stoops closer to his level and reaches a crooked finger out to scratch beneath its beak.

“Heya, Santiago-- this is Amber!” Andrew says proudly, visibly standing up straighter and swelling with pride as his creation is being revered by the sergeant like a school kid vying for the attention of his crush.

“Pretty cool,” she says, reluctant to take her hand away from the raptor. She straightens with a sigh and props herself against the doorframe. “Reyes says he’d like you back as soon as possible, or Amber, at least. Needs extra security for Oberon’s unit while they move their equipment to the diner.” The enthusiasm seems to bleed out of her voice at the insinuation of cutting short their brief reunion.

“Oberon, they alright?” McCree butts in, not thinking for one second before speaking up. He had been hanging back a little awkwardly as the third wheeler, nursing his cigar against the ramshackle building. When he had caught Oberon’s name out of the conversation. It brought him back to the present where he had been floating off to space once more. Anything to escape the ceaseless gnawing of anxiety that seems to plague him like the heat plagues the desert sands, he was employing the classic escapist strategy of daydreaming himself to blissful ignorance when his subconscious snapped him back into place.

“Yes, Reyes says that they got to him just fine.” Santiago says, with a formal edge to her tone in direct response to the intrusion. Stiffly, McCree nods, content with the answer, and he turns back to give the two their space while he occupies his time with his cigar.

“Well,” Fletcher says after a few torturously awkward moments pass between them, “I would love to stay and chat but it’s a long walk back and I’d like to make good use of the two clouds we got.”

“Right,” she chuckles, playfully reaching out to knock Fletcher’s hat askew and ruffle the hair underneath, “can’t have you burning to a crisp.” With a half-hearted swat and a duck out of reach of her hand, Fletcher waves the two off as he retreats back up the natural walkways of the gorge.

McCree watches him go without making a move of acknowledgement, and deigns to stay outside the saloon while Santiago rounds up her unit. As unprofessional and irrational as it is, there is still a bitter taste in his mouth after watching Santiago and his commander’s playful banter. The easy relationship between him and her made him twitchy and doubtful as it brings him to the thought that maybe he wasn’t as close to Reyes as he thought he was, when in actuality McCree and Santiago are just vastly different people that push different buttons for Gabriel.

It takes all of his conscious willpower to will that rationality into existence, chastising himself for casting doubt on his and Reyes’ relationship (while conveniently forgetting the entirety of the past two days as a whole). Instead, he points his attention to what makes him different from Amanda, what could be the defining turn-off that makes Reyes standoffish towards him and not her. He ruminates over it for unhealthily long until he startles out of his thoughts by a sharp gesture in his direction. 

As Santiago’s squad gathers outside the saloon, organizing themselves into ranks prior to their pressing on to an alternate safe location, the Sergeant is animatedly discussing the particulars of their mission with another under her command. In contrast with her cool collectedness, McCree’s nerves nip at his heels. His palms were itching with eagerness to see some action not terribly long before, but the air has shifted. Something seems wrong now, subtly so. As intangible as the fear is, it digs into his flesh nonetheless. 

At a higher level, he’s aware that they shouldn’t be preparing to fight. It was, at one time, a mission that relied on stealth and subtlety, not out-arming the enemy; the entire purpose of shuffling him between squads to avoid detection. Now that they’ve earned the attention of the gang, he’s unable to shake the vulnerability that took over in the absence of Reyes’ protection.

Jesse’s muscles are electrified, as if laced through by a live wire, ready to be thrust into battle. Something has his hair standing on end; he can’t be certain whether it’s the paranoia pervasive in the suddenly-stagnant canyon air that has him pinned under the feeling of being watched, or if there truly is a pair of hostile eyes keeping close tabs on him. 

In a useless attempt to alleviate the anxiety droning in his ears insistently as tinnitus, he takes deep draws from his cigar. Jesse scans the eroded canyon walls closely, seeking out any hint of enemy presence stalking him. 

The slightest shimmer of metal is all the warning he gets before the crack of a rifle breaks the air..

White-hot burning shoots up into his hip, blossoming in his thigh before blazing upwards, and he’s not offered a moment to raise alarm, let alone grab his revolver. He crumples to the ground like a sack of rocks. 

Wind is knocked out of his lungs as his weight collides with the wood of the saloon porch. His mind goes blank as he goes down, every bit of training and conditioning that had been drilled into his head getting jarred out onto the grit and replaced with searing agony.

Before any of Santiago’s agents can leap into action to respond to the assault, two men rappel down from the rock like spiders descending on prey. Their silhouettes obscure Jesse’s sight of the sky, standing over him like pillars tearing into the field of clouds that otherwise fill his vision, dark and imposing. They each make quick work of securing their burden, each of them taking one of McCree’s arms and hauling him upright despite the growl of pain that the jostling rips from his chest. He can’t reach his flash grenades, he can’t grab his revolver, and instinctually favoring his injured leg even with the surge of adrenaline purging the pain, he can’t even twist to kick with his spurs. He’s utterly defenseless, and his muscles already sing with pain.

There’s only one other sharpshooter in the area with such delicate precision: Ashe. She’s here for him, and he can’t muster any fight in himself as he’s wrenched from the safety of Santiago’s care and thrust into the waiting jaws of the law. Or what passes for the law in those parts. 

Alerted by the single shot, Santiago springs into action, her visual field already up and the barrel of her rifle swung towards the source of the noise. Not a split second after she had her sights on the figure across the canyon, she notes the repeater pointed square on her. Another crack rings through the air.

The Sergeant falls to her knees easy as a discarded puppet, her rifle clattering into the red dirt beside her. She clutches her eye with a gentle whimper, a far cry from her eager attitude not minutes before. In one fell swoop, she is rendered useless.

Like a pack of wolves cutting through the herd to keep them disoriented, repeater rounds tear through the air and prevent Santiago’s agents from grasping any concrete sense of direction, and falter in their quest to reclaim Jesse and to watch their commander’s back. 

The agents closest to where Jesse had taken his fall stutter in their tracks, heads whipping between their fallen sergeant and the two Deadlock gangsters--far more equipped than any mere grunt would be--dragging the incapacitated cowboy out of the arms of relative safety. 

He’s pulled along for what feels like hours, though in reality is probably all of a few minutes until he’s dragged onto a small natural rock outcropping. 

Crowned in flame with the blinding desert sun at her back, the figure would be impossible to make out had she not already been immediately familiar to McCree. Her expression is impossible to see, though in the back of Jesse’s mind, even through the soup of adrenaline and pain, he knows she is grinning wickedly, an impish gleam in her eyes. 

Any fight remaining in Jesse is bled out effortlessly as he’s presented to the gang leader like a prize game animal.

“Been a while, Jesse,” she purrs out, cocking her repeater and settling the weight in her hands. Even if he did have a quip to return with, the effort would have proven too much to spit it out. Jesse is already in the process of accepting his inevitable execution, too preoccupied with his imminent mortality to summon an appropriately clever response.

Ashe tilts her head at him, an air of amusement latent in her expression, as Jesse fails to respond. Pouting with faux sympathy, she simply clicks her tongue with disappointment. 

“Nothing to say after so long apart?”

Jesse’s jaw clenches shut with a Herculean effort, knowing better than to give her the satisfaction of rising to her schoolyard taunts. 

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up,” she says. 

McCree doesn’t offer so much of a cry, even as he watches with mounting horror as she rises the butt of the repeater up, and then slams it down into Jesse’s skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into the spicier events, trying to make things a little zesty. A day late as a lot of things are happening for both of us with graduation and moving! Updates should remain semi-regular. 😊
> 
> Let us know what you think and any ideas you may have or any questions! We appreciate all sorts of feedback!
> 
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	5. Hook Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Commander?” Santiago says uneasily.  
> Reyes draws out his two weapons of choice, a pair of sleek shotguns that glint in the filtered sunlight. As he speaks, he slides his shotguns into the metal tracks on each of his thighs.  
> “Jesse should keep them busy for a while."   
> It’s an excruciatingly reckless move, to be charging headfirst into the belly of the beast without having any eyes on higher ground, particularly only hours after one agent had already been plucked from his watch. Gabriel finds that, even in the midst of his ingrained training imploring him to minimize casualties rather than eliminate them entirely, he’s willing to sacrifice near anything to recover McCree.

It takes just a moment for Santiago to rise to her feet, fire burning in her eyes. Her visor lay shattered at her feet with the remnants of her rifle scope. Blood smeared across her face, staining her cheekbone and into her short-cropped hair where it drips and mingles into the dirt. Gaze sweeping over her unit, all standing unsure and shaken, she does a mental headcount and cursory sweep of their persons. No one else was injured aside from her and…

Agent McCree. 

Body shaking with adrenaline and anger, she looks to the ridges where McCree vanished. She could do nothing as he was hauled off. She is not the most mobile, nowhere near the level of mobility that those two Deadlock soldiers display. Her head instinctively turns to where Fletcher just left, wishing he had stuck around for just a couple minutes more. His birds would come in handy.

Swearing under her breath, she goes to tap her com when she gets a sharp shock to her fingertip instead. The repeater round had torn through not only her visor, but her earpiece as well, rendering her stranded. Cursing to the sky in a moment of insurmountable frustration, she growls and picks up her rifle from the dirt, examining it.

The only silver lining is that it was only the scope that got hit, the rest of the weapon remaining intact. Shouldering the weapon after a quick inspection, she faces her unit.

It takes her a moment to think, trying to formulate what would be the most reassuring and true, but the gravity of the situation is suffocating and she’s at an honest loss. Agent McCree is most likely much too far to track on foot, plus the fact that those Deadlock soldiers had more advanced mobility than anyone in her unit. 

“Alright,” she says after a beat, “we’ve lost Agent McCree and there is no chance of recovery at the moment.” Her team squirms awkwardly, a mixture of shame and shock mottling their previously professional faces. Sighing, she turns to look at the shattered glass and metal in the dirt at her feet, scruffing it with her boot in irritation. “My com is destroyed. We have to walk all the way back to Commander Reyes before we can tell him.”

Her unit falls in line behind her, hypervigilant as they shuffle out of the canyon, shifting between each other and the surroundings in turn. Santiago is almost silent as she leads them back through the canyon walls, dread filling her stomach as the dust fills her lungs. The air is heavier than usual today for more than one reason-- the wind was harsh and punishing as they breach the belly of the canyon, exposed as they leave the protecting hug of the walls. Amanda tugs her loose scarf a little higher, ignoring the patches of moisture collecting sand where her blood has dripped into the maroon fabric.

Commander Reyes isn’t a man that follows any script, and trying to conjure a conversation in her head is near-impossible. While predictable, he is never the same, never like a broken record, always in the present and never repeating words of the past. Decades of working with the man, being his closest protégé, Amanda knows the man as intimately as she can-- closer than a vast majority of the Blackwatch population. If she was feeling bold, she might even say that she  _ is  _ Reyes’ closest friend in their branch.

In Overwatch? That would have to be Ana Amari, renowned sharpshooter and her mentor. The sniper has been by Reyes’ side since the first omnic crisis, almost as long as Amanda has been alive herself. Desperately, she wishes that she were here, as she knows the older woman would know how to approach Reyes on this… delicate subject.

She wasn’t blind. How the commander behaves with the young man is… unprecedented behavior for him. Before the scraggly runt came along, he was aptly against favoritism, offering everyone equal opportunity and equal treatment with a healthy amount of exceptions but when they came back with the cowboy, kicking and screaming with fire in his veins, he changed. Gradually, he softened, or rather mellowed out, and became an active component in McCree’s life. The arrangement was that the teen would be filtered through the system the same as every other agent, but Reyes personally took it upon himself to teach McCree  _ everything. _

The kid wasn’t receptive, nowhere near obedient and willing as any other initiate. Sparring matches would end bloody as he vented his general discontentment with his life on Reyes, who took it with good grace, patient to play punching bag until it was clear to Jesse that he was here to stay. Then came a period of inactivity, where McCree’s pride and willfulness flatlined as he accepted his position in the organization, albeit unhappily, like a caged dog. Reyes didn’t shy away from the snapping teeth and growling, still hand-feeding the runt until a unique trust budded between them.

No matter how many times McCree gave Reyes a blackeye, how many verbal insults he hurled at his commander, how many deliberate acts of disobedience he enacted, Reyes never did more than glower at him and swat the hat off his head with a weightless insult in return. As he filled out and hit the last growth spurt, he grew into the role of Reyes’ right-hand man with cocky enthusiasm and confidence. Everyone viewed him as Gabriel’s pet project of sorts, the ‘teacher’s pet,’ some would say, even if the most he got out of Gabriel’s favoritism is the allowance to smoke his cigars on base and an extra helping of exasperated patience.

Ana has spoken on the subject before, of Gabriel’s feelings towards McCree, albeit vaguely. The most that Santiago could gather is Reyes has taken to seeing McCree has a son of sorts, which is different than what all the rumors say about them. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Santiago sighs through her nose as she thinks. What would be the best way to let the commander know that his adoptive son has been snatched and likely on his way to a slow death at the hands of his old gang?

Captain Amari would know what to say, seeing that she is a parent herself on top of being one of Reyes’ oldest friends. Unfortunately, she’s going to be the bearer of bad news, and she spends the entirety of their journey to the diner figuring out what would be the best delivery. 

When she sees the old building in all of its decrepit glory, she has come up with nothing but more anxiety, close to bubbling over. She knows that Reyes won’t do anything rash, never one to take favoritism too far, and act without thinking but… McCree isn’t a standard variable. Amanda can only hope, and she’s not the biggest investor in hope.

Reyes seems to be anticipating their arrival, as he spots them from the shadowed doorway of the diner. He’s stock-still, arms crossed over his chest, and his demeanor inscrutable. Santiago wastes no time entering the dinner, walking past her commander as her agents shuffle in behind her to fill the already too-crowded space.

She knows that Gabriel has noticed the blood-caked to her skin, the forlorn look of her agents, and the distinct absence of a particularly noticeable hat sticking out from the herd. Even while she is not the focal point of that heavy gaze, her skin prickles with ignominy. She can only imagine the indignation her agents felt, unused to such scrutiny from such a higher power.

Reyes says nothing as his eyes follow the train of agents streaming in, eventually locking on to Santiago. His expression is unreadable, apart from the clench of his jaw that signifies that he’s not too eager to see the Sergeant so soon. Santiago draws a breath, straightening herself in an attempt to spit out the bad news.

“McCree was taken.”

Reyes doesn’t say anything. Neither his body language nor his expression betrays the emotions that churn under the surface. In a way, the absence of a reaction is more unnerving than any outburst he could have provided.

Santiago, for the first time in years, feels uncomfortable under his watch. She averts her gaze as shame climbs up her throat.

“We couldn’t chase, they used grapples and--”

“Fletcher, ping his com,” Reyes says, not so much as sparing a glance towards the Captain.

Andrew startles to attention, offering a hum of acknowledgment before he scrambles to engage his visor. The machine flickers to life, and he worries his lower lip as he shuffles through agents’ numbers, stopping when he reaches McCree’s. Buffering for a few moments makes the tension tangible, but even so, the communication is considerably faster with Amber’s collection of geographic data. 

“Location.”

“U-uh… North of Santiago’s old position by a quarter-mile. They’re moving fast.”

“Localize it, Fletcher,” Reyes says. His patience wanes as he finally spares him a glance, an unidentifiable shine in his eyes. 

Being pinned under the Commander’s eyes startles him, and he gives a sharp nod as he refines the search, tapping frantically to appease Reyes. 

“Large facility in the canyon wall. A big metal compound where the road ends.”

Reyes doesn’t say anything. He looks back at Santiago, his eyes cold-- not in cruelty or accusation, but as a vacuum of warmth, devoid of any color. A hand moves to his earpiece where he taps it three times, and he holds the pad of his gloved index to it as he starts to move. He had requested an immediate evac dropship, instructed to track his communication’s GPS to dispatch to his exact location. Given the relative distance to the Overwatch headquarters, it is only sensible to allow at least an hour or more to prepare and transport. 

A chill rips down Santiago’s back, unused to such unadulterated yet unnamed emotion behind her superior’s face. She is forced to shuffle back as Gabriel storms over to the bar top, stalking and lethal.

“Commander?” Santiago says uneasily.

“The kid was right.”

Santiago blinks at him, confused before she recalls the exchange-- McCree’s outburst, the one in the saloon on the very first day in the gorge. Reyes was dubious when McCree vehemently claimed that his gang was still around these parts, not fully understanding why it was as serious a threat as it was to the kid.

“The gang is in the old facility,” he states lamely, reaching back behind the counter. He draws out his two weapons of choice, a pair of sleek shotguns that glint in the filtered sunlight. 

He’s not thinking, not clearly; all of his thoughts feel muddled by a haze that has settled over him like suffocating blankets as soon as he heard from Fletcher that gunfire was detected from Santiago's position. It is like his head is full of cotton, choking out any higher thought. He’s now got one objective: rescue Jesse. And he’d cut no corners to get there.

Little is able to cut through the fog rolling in and taking dominion over his psyche, apart from a cocktail of guilt and rage burning his esophagus. Flashbulb recollections of Jesse’s recent admissions of concern cut through the shroud, illuminating the looming danger that Jesse’s been marked with as a result of his capture, burning Reyes from the inside out as he realizes just how correct the younger man had been in his concern for his safety. What once was a slow smolder of fear as the reality of the situation had begun dawning on him had been left unattended and grown into an inferno, boiling his nerve endings to nothing and leaving naught but the burned-out shell of a man in its charred wake. 

The emotions that swept through him and left him hollow not moments before are instead honed in one polarizing shift. They are sharpened to an edge, as becomes blatantly obvious when the cold points of his gaze are turned upon the three units gathered within the confines of the diner.

“We have to strike now and make it count if we’re going to recover the stash and Agent McCree in one piece,” he says. Contradictorily, his words are that of a pep talk, but his tone conveys an utmost emergency--that of a mission that, if botched, has the potential to ruin careers (most notably his own). 

As he speaks, he slides his shotguns into the metal tracks on each of his thighs. Palpable apprehension and anticipation circulates the space, sloughing off of the agents and feeding each other’s nerves. 

“Jesse should keep them busy for a while,” he continues, tone too level to sit well with Santiago. She’d rather not assess the implications or unpack the statement too much, unable to stomach what the idle mind might conjure up of Jesse’s sorry state.

She and Fletcher share a sparing glance, gauging whether the other were feeling the same unease in Reyes’ calmness. On the surface, it appears Fletcher is experiencing the same perturbation, his eyebrows pinched in the middle and tension laced through his body like the early stages of rigor mortis.

There’s no opportunity to exchange words or comfort the other in regards to what’s happening, as their units dutifully follow the implicit instruction doled out by their superior. They lose each other in the fluctuations and bustle around them, dragging them away from each other and thrusting them into the unknown. Verbal comfort is out of the picture, even with the potential avenue offered through their comms, given everyone’s mutual fear of the terse silence imposed by the Commander’s frigid fury.

Reyes doubts increased surveillance to be a great boon to them, if not on a conscious level, it is at least present in the glaring lack of consideration of the idea. It’s an excruciatingly reckless move, to be charging headfirst into the belly of the beast without having any eyes on higher ground, particularly only hours after one agent had already been plucked from his watch. In some twisted, ironic way, it is almost advantageous; the spontaneity lends them some element of surprise, just by virtue of being unpredictable.

But they aren’t aware of the value of McCree to Reyes; they underestimate the weight of the boy’s life as it rests in Gabriel’s hands. Adhering himself to strict standards of avoiding favoritism never seems to apply to Jesse, as though hand-rearing the man had bonded them. Threats of that bond being severed by some uncontrollable third party elicits a primal sense of protectiveness over McCree. 

As they traverse the desert between the diner and the hulking bunker laying at the end of the road, a persistent thought pricks at his focus. The notion that he’s frequently reckless in his maneuvers, never lending enough thought to his movements before enacting them, it insults him to no end. Rather, it is pulled into sharp focus how conscientious he is in bending the rules, nearly until their breaking point, skirting around orders on technicalities and intuition, though he is bound to his own creed of morals. Those morals are still wont to snap with pressure, but they hold more meaning to him than any rules handed down to him from his higher-ups. 

The thought of trusting his own instincts and structured set of self-imposed guidelines being construed as recklessness as opposed to learned experience is enough to warrant a cynical laugh, huffed through his nose rather than given real body by his throat. Leave it to bureaucracy to stamp out any individualism like a pest beneath a boot. 

Even his own way of coping, finding twisted humor in ironies and laughing at his own faults under the focusing lens of hindsight, was frowned upon in comparison to the outright wallowing in mistakes that other commanders tended to quietly fall into. At least he’d laugh at his faults; he’s the only one capable of finding some sort of humor in it, at least apart from their adversaries.

Gabriel finds that, even in the midst of his ingrained training imploring him to minimize casualties rather than eliminate them entirely, he’s willing to sacrifice near anything to recover Jesse. He wonders if (and perhaps prays that) Jesse is still relatively unscathed, able to talk his way out of any sort of maiming, just as he’d been able to talk himself out of punishments within the ranks. 

Silhouettes of fists and suffocation adorn Jesse’s skin like faded tattoos, imprinted on the swell of his throat and the intercostals of each rib, plainly telling the story of cruel blows dealt to his already-scarred and sun-kissed flesh. Droplets of blood and flowers of purple and blue are worn like jewelry, distributed evenly across any and all skin exposed to the downright-frigid air of the building, thus subject to punishment from any infraction that his captors deemed worthy. The necklace weighs heavily on him, choking him of oxygen and pulling his head down.

Shadows dance along his vision in the shapes of spectres, people long gone and yet everlasting. Trying to discern the spots in his vision from the very real images of human form sweeping across his field of view proved to be too taxing, and his brain has begun to omit a vast majority of information. No face was registering amidst the bobbing sea of people, going to and fro, if it were multiple people at all. Perhaps it was just the one, coming into view and dipping past the horizon like a buoy tormenting his adrift existence. 

A droning noise catches a sliver of his attention, the leftover of his span now that he is finding himself closer and closer to the precipice of unconsciousness. It’s short, stunted, like a cartoon character’s babbling speak-voice, running through dialogue. It registered as someone speaking, incomprehensible and alien to his ears.

Ashe rolls her eyes, watching the cowboy’s head loll forward and his shoulders slump. Knife bloodied and dulled, clenched in her fist, propped on her hip as she cocks her head in nonchalance, she grows irritated. At first, it was amusing, watching the former gang leader struggle to keep his head above water amongst the waves of agony and psychological torment, but now it was simply sad. 

“Wake up,” she growls, crudely grabbing his chin and wrenching his face up. McCree’s eyes swim, struggling to focus on those piercing eyes boring into his. They’re lost for a moment, yanked away from the bed of nothingness the moment his eyes flutter shut, but they manage, narrowing into a pathetic attempt of defiance.

Scoffing, Ashe takes his bruised and split lower lip between her thumb and index finger, squeezing the mangled tissue cruelly and relishing in the way McCree’s eyes snap wide open in abrupt shock and renewed pain.

“If you’re just gonna pass out after a few measly scratches, might as well give you something worth passing out for.”

The very tattoo that he was once so proud of as to wear it like a badge of honor was, truthfully, always an eye sore. It was a mess of blown-out ink, made sloppy with haste and frank lack of care, doled out by an artist looking only to turn a quick buck and very clearly lacking a license for his seedy back-alley drug-front shop. From its conception, it sullied the purity of his skin, irrevocably tainting it with affiliation to his ill-begotten family.

The exodus of the ink is white hot, evoking stars to first dot and then encompass his vision in a rapturous burst. It is white-hot, searing, and recklessly consuming like a dying star, reaching out its irradiated tendrils to drag anything nearby with it to its inky grave. Just as celestial bodies are excised from the sky like a cancerous tumor, blade severs tendon and slices bone. 

Some comfort is to be found in the gap between the waking world and the unconscious. The dull roar in his ears--the only stimulation he is afforded as he is ejected from his body--nicely compliments the nothingness that is draped over him like a blanket and remains as the only thing anchoring him to his lucidity. In all likelihood, the slightest push holds the potential to deal the final blow and permanently rend him from his consciousness.

As metal sings against tissue, seismic tremors are drawn from his body, leaving him shuddering in time with and just as imperceptibly as the movement of tectonic plates. Until a great buckling under monumental forces delivers the final urge and elicits a proper quake, it would go unnoticed, serving as a quiet countdown to his own demise. 

Even in his general lack of awareness in his surroundings, the power of observation revoked by pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, the inborn impulse to defend himself from his assailants worms through his veins. It freely bleeds into nothingness along with his more literal lifeblood, offering nothing but a vague itching beneath his skin as it settles into uselessness, given the lack of conscious will to do anything about his circumstance.

It’s not the actual severing of his arm that makes him howl with pain, but the fleeting image of the limb colliding with the dirty concrete floor with a heavy smack that he’s able to make out before blacking out entirely. A merciful reprieve in earth-shattering agony. 

Commotion draws the other bottomfeeders faster than sharks to chum, gang members crowding the doorways as shameless voyeurs to the suffering. Ashe’s only real acknowledgement is a sigh, disappointment akin to a child whose favored toy ran out of batteries. 

“No fun,” she pouts, leaning further into the cowboy’s space. Even so, the hint of a cruel smirk pulls at her lips. The gang leader thumbs absently at his eye, pulling at the limp skin, which flutters out of pure reflex. His eye occasionally flits about, as if in REM sleep, but it remains unseeing, blind to the world even as he apparently peers out at his surroundings.

Pathetic in comparison to the initial struggle he gave her, she quickly loses interest. Killing him outright would grant him more mercy than she was in the mood to dole out to the rat who sold them out for a position in that horrid organization, so instead, she turns her ire upon the grunts that had crowded any and all entrances to the improvised interrogation room. 

“Get out of here,” she barks. Better to leave Jesse to come to again, maybe he’d be more willing to talk under the threat of removing more limbs, since he knew now that she wasn’t bluffing about it in the first place, with the image of his arm now growing cold on the floor being the last thing he’d seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended delay, the authors have been moving around and getting settled in. Here soon, both of us will be working full time and getting prepared for college, so updates will continue at a slowed pace of every two weeks or so.
> 
> This chapter is shorter than the rest because we're getting ready to dive into the nitty gritty of things. A lot is going to happen with the characters, more characters are going to be introduced, and more! Ton of stuff planned, we have as far as the eleventh chapter outlined.
> 
> All comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!  
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	6. Derecho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each and every one of Reyes’ field experiences pale in comparison to the downright eerie way that Jesse could be so blissfully unaware of the sheer amount of flesh he’d been robbed of.
> 
> He prays that this isn’t McCree’s last day, but he puts no stock in any other outcome; it would be wishful thinking and nothing more.
> 
> Perhaps by pure chance, their gazes drift together, and it would bring a tear to Reyes’ eye if he were any other man.

Like a storm cloud pregnant with danger, crackling with power and encroaching upon the light of the land, the three units moved in on their target. Heading the wake, Reyes marched on with jaw tight and brows knit with thinly constrained rage. It leaks from his muscles, his body exuding his deadly anger in thin wisps of sulfuric smoke. To others, it was a mirage, a trick of the eyes in the boiling sun. Reyes’ figure dark like blacktop radiating in abstract lines into the sky.

Gabriel’s grip was slipping just so, the mask knocked askew in a fervid attempt to wipe the emotion from his eyes and keep his face blank. It poured forth from the few available exits, venting like a burning house breathes from her windows.

Standing at his porch step was Sergeant Oberon, the only one in a village hopeful enough to fight it. Wistfully, she believes that her very presence is water washing over the withered support beams, as though her adoration will lick the wounds etched into his frame and evaporate the gasoline trailing his mind’s estate. 

It couldn’t, not while the fire was still blazing. The gasoline was soaked into the wood grain, the carpets, and the upholstery. Inside, the furniture popped and crumbled, the plants were reduced to their own soil, and the clothes evaporated into fine wisps of fragrant smoke. 

Her continued presence was nothing more than a stray droplet of rain that escaped the dense darkness of Reyes’ figure, a sliver of light peeking through the cracks where he broke apart and struggled to stitch himself back together. Inevitably, the window is shut by the storm, the light filtering into nothingness and replaced by the ceaseless expanse of terror brought on by the unpredictable and certain impact.

Thanks to the commotion of McCree’s capture, both sides benefited from the other’s fervor; Reyes used the open territory free from sentries to push in with damning force while Ashe managed to exploit Reyes’ spontaneity in the thick of the battle.

The compound wasn’t difficult to infiltrate, something that normally would have tripped many warning bells in Reyes’ mind. They shuffled through the available opening, a shut-off side entrance that wears multiple years of disuse on its hinges and windows. It opened with coaxing, the rust flaking away from the frame it grew adhered to, unable to remain under Reyes’ crude strength.

The facility itself was eerily quiet, only filled with the lingering echo of the door’s squeal and the compounding footsteps of the units shuffling into the dark and abandoned hallway of the building’s outermost wing. Oberon covers his flank, tailing close behind him as he pushes through the corridors with reckless abandon disguised as fast calculations. The other unit leaders remain dutifully with their crew, knowing that their presence will have a placating affect on the antsy agents.

Drawing up to a corner, Reyes falters and stops before he crosses into line of sight of the perpendicular hallways. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of foreign footsteps catches the commander’s attention. It’s distinctly different from those of his allies, the military grade metal sounding familiar to his conditioned brain and the stark comparison of scuffing and overt stomping. 

It’s the first of many adversaries that Reyes’ dispatches in a manner less than professional. It is enough to warrant Oberon’s interjection, although a meek one, to ask about the core objectives of their mission. Rightfully so, as even though the original mission plans outlined by Commander Morrison were essentially scrapped and redrawn under Reyes’ impression of what would be best for them, the core objectives didn’t waver. They were there to recover the stolen weapon stash that the gang was pedaling and to incarcerate as many guilty parties as possible from buyers to sellers to simply anyone affiliated with the gang. Lethal force was authorized but to be used with discretion, and while the gang grunts patrolling the corridors on the farthest stretches of the compound were armed to the teeth and trigger-happy, they posed no real threat to the trained operants.

Still, Gabriel left no survivors in his wake, pushing through several patrol units before reaching the core of the building, heavily populated in comparison to the abandoned wing they had weaseled their way through. No one else spoke up to debate the ethics of the situation or call Reyes’ professionalism into question, dutifully following along behind him like a flock of ducklings. It’s as though they had imprinted not on a drake but on a stalking predator, a housecat with feather’s between its claws and a fattened belly of misdemeanors.

They follow all the same, stepping over the bodies of gang grunts and remaining quiet. 

At the junction of a new hallway, this one more lively and teeming with foot traffic, Reyes halts the caravan once more. He stares at apparently nothing for a few short moments before his eyes flicker all about, drawing in the scene before him and sketching his plans over top of what he saw. There were several patrols crossing each other, five deep in each group, and likely more coming to intersect at a more communal position. They all spoke loudly, jovially, and greeted each other colloquially. 

It was a raucous display that spurred an idea, and with a single hand motioning for stillness behind him, Reyes stepped out into the gap that opens between the two patrols as they cross each other and carry on. With the volume of their banter, neither of the patrols catch the new pair of boots on their floors until Reyes found himself in position. He watched in his periphery the direction of one patrol while he followed another from a light distance, waiting until a secondary hallway opened up before he stopped in his tracks.

Making eye-contact with his agents, he silently peels off one of his gloves and brings it to his mouth. Whistling sharp and trilling like a coach commanding attention, he pulled the gaze of every grunt in the hallway. When the patrol parties turned and looked at Reyes, the confusion was palatable. For a few short moments, no one did anything except for Gabriel, who turned and calmly walked into the hallway he was positioned by.

Oberon fidgeted, nerves digging into her skin like barbed hooks as she lost sight of her commander. Obediently, however, she stayed put, watching from the small cranny all the agents were squished in as the patrols got their wits about them and made pursuit. 

At that moment, a single shotgun round went off in a separate direction, different from the one her commander went. There was a moment of their own confusion as the commanding officers glanced about each other, uncertain as to what they should do. They hadn’t received any instruction, and the protocol for scenarios without command is to wait for one. Like fawns laying in the underbrush, waiting for their mother to retrieve them, they lay there and waited. It is the oldest survival technique in the book, predating them by millenia; simple and trustworthy.

A few more shotgun rounds were heard, now displaced. The continuously changing source of gunfire was disorientating, and Oberon figures that it’s by design. She settles low on her haunches, allowing an agent of hers to stand over her if just to have two sets of eyes looking outwards.

When there is no pause between beats, Oberon bodily flinches. Instead, a melody of gunfire joins the steady metronome of Reyes’ shotgun blasts. Assault rifles, repeaters, a revolver or two, and even shotguns of their own.

Sergeant Oberon doesn’t think before she bursts forth from their hiding space, charging through intersecting corridors as she tries to locate the source of discord amongst the cavern walls. Someone-- perhaps her whole unit or another sergeant-- grabbed at her, hissed out objections and swears as she dashes out of the safety of their ranks. 

It takes too long for the mass of agents to decide whether it is wise to chase or not. A minute passes between them before someone else surges forward, pulling the swath of Blackwatch members forward like a fish on the line. They took similar routes, weaving through hallways and finding themselves pinned by several patrols also rushing to the action. They weren’t hard battles, but time-consuming, as Sergeant Santiago set a firm precedent that they were to follow the mission statement. Incarcerating the grunts they subdued rather than dispatching them killed more time than what the alternative would have, but the commanding officers made it clear where they stood.

Everyone was unsettled by Reyes’ abrupt change of methodology, too troubled to speak up on it. Without his presence, even as it carried through the hallways in screams and gunfire, they were more inclined to act as they wanted-- humanely, true to the objective.

Captain Fletcher glanced at Santiago as she forced another Deadlock grunt to his knees, wrists cuffed behind his back in hard-light restraints. Her eyes are focused but far off in thought, and her eyebrows seem permanently fixed in a scowl somewhere between angry and worried. Watching the corner, he shuffles his role to another agent to saddle up next to her. The grunt had long since stopped struggling, now pitifully staring at the ground in compliance. Truthfully, it was worrisome, as it seemed even the grunts they were apprehending were under the influence of some odd energy that sat ill with them. The closer to the gunfire they got, the easier it was to simply turn the corner and have the gang members drop their weapons and show their palms in surrender.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Fletcher says as Santiago helps the man to his feet after frisking him. The man flips his head to flick the hair out of his face and sighs, obediently moving into the huddle of other grunts that have been ferried along on their journey. It had grown in size to upwards of two dozen men, all stripped of weapons and fighting morale.

“No shit.” Andrew looks at her with exasperation.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Santiago says, unholstering her sniper-turned-assault rifle and clenching the grip. She glances around for a moment like a frenzied hare before she ducks in close to Fletcher’s ear, “Commander Reyes has lost his shit.”

Fletcher nods, swallowing heavily. It makes the weight in his stomach even heavier to hear it spoken aloud, however obvious it is otherwise. The Commander has flown off the rails, and in his mind it is painfully clear why. Everything he witnessed first hand seems to be more forewarning than simple gossip-fodder.

The allowance of mutiny and disrespect is a peculiar sort of favoritism that can often be overlooked, as it seems almost every commanding officer has a little leeway for their one particular agent. That said, a commanding officer allowing an agent to kiss them after initiating a verbal disagreement, then inviting the agent into intimate bed practices-- that is far from normal.

“He’s been slipping for awhile now,” Fletcher mumbles, tilting his head towards her to keep it discreet. Santiago’s eyes narrow just slightly in a request for clarification, and he simply utters out “Rialto,” in a reluctant whisper.

Amanda nods in recognition, her lip pulling back in distaste, “I wasn’t there, they kept that shit under wraps. Don’t think it was this bad.”

“I talked to McCree about it,” he says before he grimaces, “Reyes killed someone he shouldn’t have, but he didn’t…”

Neither of them speak, silence enveloping the entire group of uneasy militants as they marched through the hall into the next. The next is empty aside from the start of a trail of bodies. They lay stiffly in their ramshackle armor, propped against the walls and slumped onto the decrepit floors, weapons still clutched close.

Several apprehended Deadlock grunts shuffle and shift, vocalizing their upset. None of the Blackwatch operants silence them.

“But he didn’t do this,” Santiago grits out, just loud enough for Fletcher to catch it. They stare at it for a few moments longer, Fletcher’s stomach growing queasy. He is no stranger to death, to the visuals that come with combat. The most lurching factor of it is the nature of it; it wasn’t a war with two equally vicious sides ripping into one another, this was the equivalent of a wolf digging into a dog’s backyard. Just one primordial entity invading the domestic territory, the ruthless power of the wolf too much for the dogs to stand a chance.

Turning on his heel, Fletcher looks at the agents acting as cornerstones to the gaggle of grunts. If he has trouble looking at the outskirts of the blast radius, then he’s sure that viewing the fallen bodies of their brothers in arms isn’t any easier.

“Take them out to position C, they don’t need to be in here. Utilize Sergeant Santiago’s supplies at your discretion. Sergeant Oberon’s unit,” he says, his typically light and docile voice sharp and demanding the utmost respect and undivided attention. The flock of lost chicks perk up at the attention, eager for any direction. “Escort the four agents out with the others. Once things are handled, all personnel will converge on your position and we’ll see what happens next,” Andrew says with a curt dip of his head as assurance, “Agents Johnson and Garcia can communicate with me. Agents Miller and Pappas can communicate with Sergeant Santiago. Anything happens out there, let either of us know immediately.”

Watching them hesitate for a moment, he waves his hand at them and barks with annoyance lacing his tone, “get to it, this isn’t a time to be waiting around!” The agents startle and offer their apologies in the form of utmost haste. 

Once the hallway lost half of its occupancy, Fletcher turned to Santiago, who was still looking about the hallway with an inscrutable expression.

“No sign of Sergeant Oberon,” Santiago says flatly, adjusting her grip on her weapon before she’s pressing on. She doesn’t offer any signal to follow, doesn’t permit any further conversation about Reyes’ shifted ethics. Simply, Amanda leaves Andrew to find his footing and keep up with her squad.

Of all things.

Splinters explode out from the crate Reyes’ sheltered behind, the bullet whizzing overhead as he’s momentarily blinded with wooden debris. Any and all available gang members were either converged on his position or rapidly approaching as it seems that no matter how many he shreds, more keep surging forward like roaches.

“God fucking  _ damn  _ it,” he spits, only able to hold one shotgun as the other hand balances the neck of Sergeant Oberon in his palm. She is unresponsive, her head lulling awkwardly as he struggles to maintain an upright angle. 

Like a bat out of hell, she came out of nowhere right as some bastard threw a grenade down the hallway he was in. Ordinarily, a grenade is something he can handle no problem as long as no one shoots it on the way to him. 

Oberon, however, decided to play hero. Maybe it was the puppy crush she’s got on Reyes that he’s well aware of, which he should have stamped out the moment she filtered through his ranks years ago.

God damn, he should have done  _ a lot  _ of things years ago.

His mind is addled with too many thoughts, too many emotions.

Ella managed to catch her commander off guard and took it upon herself to take the brunt of the explosion, timing a well-balanced body slam to force Reyes into the room of adversaries. Had she  _ not  _ done that, Gabe would have caught the grenade and thrown it back, plain and simple. It’s not like the scraggly rats are tactically trained to throw right.

Instead, Reyes found himself scrambling to pull her unresponsive body beyond a stack of crates, likely the weapons they were there to seize. The explosion didn’t just knock her out, but it feels like it broke several vertebrae in her lower back, the initial force coupled with the proximity of the grenade throwing her a good distance away.

Even if she was going to live, even if she was going to wake up in a daze in just a moment, she was effectively paralyzed from the waist down, at minimum.

Spitting curses and swears to himself, he peeks over the crates to evaluate the battlefield before he looks at her again. Blood is steadily trickling down her lips from her nose. It doesn’t look broken, and he wouldn’t be all too surprised if her head got scrambled with some blunt force trauma as well.

It doesn’t look good against her pale face, as though it were trying to connect the dots of her freckles with morbid pen ink. 

The brief thought crosses his mind as his gaze lingers on her half-lidded, empty eyes: it’s a damn shame to lose such a brilliant mind to something so frivolous.

Delicately, shuffling her body like he was navigating with a full glass, tempted to tip and spill red wine onto his already stained uniform, he rests her limp body against the wooden crate to maintain an upright angle. With just one hand available, Reyes struggles, as her body denies his attempts at first. It grows frustrating, and he ends up slamming his weapon to the ground and pinning her shoulder to the box as he shuffles her dead weight into a proper position.

The frustration is quick to slick the outside of the glass he’s struggling to balance, and his grip is clammy. It’s hard to distinguish what was more angering-- the combat around him that caused such injuries coupled with the helplessness of the extent of the damage dealt, or the plaguing guilt that haunts him as somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that Oberon wouldn’t have gotten hurt had he not lost his cool and lose himself.

Stuck in an upright position, held by his hand, Reyes simply stares at his sergeant with a cold realization washing over him.

If Oberon were to live, he would need to leave immediately, resulting in the abandonment of their objective and of Agent McCree. If he were to push onwards and clear the area to recapture Agent McCree and secure the weapons stash, Oberon would surely die before the dropships arrived. 

It didn’t feel like a decision, not one that he was an active part in deciding. His finger slowly presses in the earpiece button and he waits quietly for an affirmative to receive communications as if he were making a meager doctor’s appointment and not braving the battlefield frontlines alone. 

Captain Fletcher is the fastest to respond, ready to act on additional instruction. Gingerly, Reyes releases the pressure that pinned Oberon’s shoulder to the crate and leans back onto his boot heels, straightening up as her body sags but stays. 

“Sergeant Oberon has been located.”

“Location, sir?” Fletcher says sharply, not dulled with the reality of the situation yet. There’s a hopeful edge to the tone like perhaps there is a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. 

Reyes doesn’t speak for a moment, still staring at the body of the dying sergeant before him. “I’ll relay a marked L-GPS signal. You know the drill. Listen to your earpiece and it’ll steer you in the right direction,” he says evenly, casually collecting his shotguns from the dirtied floor, “It will send you on the path I went, so watch your step.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain says after a moment of silence.

“I’m going to clear the storage bay and locate Agent McCree--”

“Sir,” Fletcher cuts in abruptly, and he can feel the tertiary cringe across the line at the misdemeanor, “is Sergeant Oberon going to follow your lead?”

Reyes doesn’t scold the interruption, nor does he physically respond to it. He’s too preoccupied constructing a palatable response to the inevitable realization the units will have to face. Ever the sharp one, he’s not surprised Andrew caught the scent of iron and dust on the wind.

“Sergeant Oberon is critically injured,” Reyes says flatly as though he were reading a mission report over, “Indirect concussive blast, heavy internal damage and multiple breaks in the spine.”

Fletcher says nothing on his end. Gabriel knows that Santiago is also listening in, her silent presence thick as smoke in his throat. He clears his throat, imperceptible to the mic as gunfire continues overheard.

“She is the marked signal,” he grunts, “at the end of the tunnel, eleven o’clock. Oberon is behind the wooden crates.” 

As he rises to his feet, shielding himself around the corner of the tallest stack of crates, he realizes that he hadn’t received an acknowledgment to his positional instructions.

“Fletcher, Santiago, you copy?”

“Reyes--” Santiago says, intercepting any thought of Fletcher’s as they both started at once, “what are we to do with Sergeant Oberon?”

There is no response from their commander, the only indication that his earpiece was still active was the constant rain of bullets in his general direction. 

“Keep her company.”

“But what about all the Deadlock--?” Fletcher chokes out, already hustling through the hallways towards Reyes’ location.

“Don’t sweat it kid,” he says chidingly, dropping the line even as Fletcher sputtered and tripped over more questions. His mind was reeling, completely blindsided with the fate of Oberon. To make matters worse, Reyes is acting out of line, speaking cryptically and vaguely enough to leave a sour taste in the mouth without cluing them into what he’s force-feeding them.

It’s sickeningly sweet like the salivation before vomit, and Fletcher finds it harder and harder to keep his stomach contents down as he struggles to step over the many victims of Reyes’ wrath.

It takes half the time it took for his units to reach Oberon as it takes Reyes to clear the storage bay in its entirety, although he isn’t rooting about in the nooks and crannies for those too yellow. Mission parameters be damned at this point; he was going to retrieve his agent through hell or high water.

The densest population hangs around the backmost door, likely to a small shipment office (or whatever it has been since transformed), as thickly as flies swarming around a rotting carcass. When he had done enough to dispel the horde of putrid aggressors and the air is left empty of their incessant buzzing, he realises that there was nothing but silence on the other side of the door.

Typically, there would be frantic scrambling, shouting and swearing as the inhabitants flee-- that is, if they didn’t already tuck tail and dip at the first sign of true consequence. Instead, the steady buzz of warehouse lighting and the distant clamor of a firefight are all the stimulus he’s offered.

The thought of being unable to deliver succinct vengeance for Oberon’s fatality and whatever injury McCree has accrued, if they hadn’t killed him outright, makes his blood boil. The tertiary thought of losing McCree is the straw that broke the camel’s back. Wisps of smoke wafted off his broad shoulders, slipping through the microscopic holes between threads in the soft fabric, his emotion forcing his corporeal form to sublimate into a dense fog. Carving through the swath of Deadlock grunts was an outlet for his anger, even though it proved to be an exercise in restraint to not allow his genetic enhancements to override his true self.

He found time and time again that each dissociation from his solid state made it more difficult to materialize again. A certain freedom could be found in the airy lightness; a freedom that could be found nowhere else. 

Standing before the room that acts as a Schrodindger’s box feels as though he were in limbo. He rides the fine line between transcending the common coil of man in his unadulterated anger and slipping away into abject emptiness as his own secondary shock threatens to paralyze his system.

The door to the back rooms splinters easily under the force of Reyes’ combat boot, and the staccato of the flood of light that assaults his vision shakes some of the blinding rage from his body in sheer disorientation. It forces him to blink a few times to fully comprehend the weight of the image before him; Jesse’s ragged form left slumped in the wood chair catches his eye, but it’s too much even for combat-worn Reyes to take in immediately. 

Blood pooling and the occasional involuntary shiver or jerk from Jesse’s form, which should jolt Gabriel into action, contradictorily casts his feet in concrete. His rage loses some incandescence and tempers into horror.

A carpet of blood blankets the floor around the legs of the chair, interrupted only by scuff marks left behind by McCree’s spurs during the struggle, slowly creeping across the shabby floor laying in stark contrast to the frighteningly still figure in the chair. Propped up almost deliberately to showcase each inch of damaged skin, every individual wound still weeping with the feeble pumps of his heart hits the Commander in the chest with the same force as a shotgun shell. 

Blindfolding only did so much to obscure the old tear tracks on Jesse’s face, and the skin is still flush with agitation. If he truly desired to, Reyes could probably discern which instruments in particular that they struck the boy with. But he doesn’t. 

With delicacy one might use to care for an infant animal, perhaps enhanced by his delicate handling of Oberon not minutes before, he slips the rough linen from McCree’s eyes. He’s silently thankful that he was at least still in possession of both of them, but it is a short-lived victory upon the realization that Jesse is minimally responsive to any sort of visual stimulation, only offering a dazed expression in return to Reyes’ presence. As Gabe’s gloved fingers dance in front of his eyes, they’re only met with vague tracking and pupils blown out and addled with an emotion that avoids description.

Haloed in the stuttering light with wings of smoke flaring and curling behind him, Reyes is his guardian angel. Realistically, in Jesse’s mind at least, it made sense; who else could it have ever been? He’d already done so much for McCree at this point, not only in raising him from the lowlife fate that continued membership in the gang would bring, but hand-training him as he rose through the ranks. Each and every milestone, Reyes was there to offer guidance-- whether explicitly or not-- and to continue to push him to try harder. Wherever he faltered, Gabriel has been there to bolster his confidence once more and, in his own unspoken, subtle, and sometimes austere ways, continued to help him improve. He’d just have to be the one to once again pull him from the gang’s clutches and put him back together again.

The Commander stoops to first unfasten each of his restraints, then pulls the boy from the chair to hoist him over his shoulder and carry him out. What he did not account for was Jesse’s left arm refusing to follow suit with the rest of his body--while the majority of his form obediently follows Reyes’ motion, the limb remains stationary, exposing a raw stump where it once connected with his torso. It tumbles to the floor with a sickening slap of flesh.

Even with bits of gore and brain spattering his uniform, if he weren’t careful, he’d have purged whatever stomach contents he has. 

Evidently, it had been some number of hours since the severing occurred, if the couple of flies that had been circling lazily are any indication, their black forms just as imposing as vultures.

Perhaps more alarming than the amateur amputation was the lack of response on Jesse’s part. His expression took on no indication that he’s even aware of the gravity of the situation. Either the boy has already accepted the fate of that limb, or he is too far gone to care. His eyelids flutter and his chest continues to fall and rise, but his nerve endings have apparently given up trying to relay any sort of urgent messages, bogged down by the traffic jam of pain and subsequent pleasure brought on as his body dopes him up on endorphins. 

Moreso than any amount of gore could bother him, the cowboy’s sorry state makes him feel as though he’s fallen through the floor. Each and every one of Reyes’ field experiences pale in comparison to the downright eerie way that Jesse could be so blissfully unaware of the sheer amount of flesh he’d been robbed of. Even as his unseeing eyes land on his now-frigid appendage, there is no indication that it is at all significant to Jesse. His head simply swirls with a cocktail of hormones blinding him to the weight of the situation.

Reyes wastes no time pondering the situation-- or, at least, that’s what he tells himself; in truth, he spent longer than he should have just to process the situation unfolding in front of him.

Blood clots broken and vessels freed, they go back to pumping the remaining lifeblood out of the agent as Gabriel looks on, almost in a trance. Training seems to have left him just as the original intent of the mission, and the window of time in which Jesse is left untreated lengthens. Each second ticking by without action on Gabriel’s part worsens the potential recovery that Jesse could make.

Mind catching up with the circumstances at hand, at least enough to take action, he juggles the weight of McCree awkwardly as he rips the sleeve from his uniform. Upon merely placing it over the raw wound, it becomes saturated and dripping, but any amount of first aid is better than allowing him to exsanguinate. 

Gabriel drinks in the expression on Jesse’s face as he carries out his task, memorizing it while he still has some liveliness in him. He prays that this isn’t McCree’s last day, but he puts no stock in any other outcome; it would be wishful thinking and nothing more to believe that Jesse would be capable of carrying on a lifestyle similar in any way to his previous one.

Perhaps by pure chance, their gazes drift together, and it would bring a tear to Reyes’ eye if he were any other man. By Reyes’ doing, their foreheads press together, and each unspoken apology that had remained bottled up and pressurized within his chest spills forth unceremoniously. For what reason that the barest of eye contact permitted him such a show of emotion remains a mystery to him, but it is enough to soften his demeanor.

A final apology passes Reyes’ lips as he ties the makeshift tourniquet, murmuring comforting if empty assurances, but the cowboy’s reaction to the likely-intense pain is subdued by his proximity to death. Even so, he chokes on what little spit his cotton-filled mouth had produced and his muscles struggle instinctually away from the nerve-rending pain he’d be experiencing had his mind not put a cap on the agony he was permitted to experience.

When the aftershocks work their way out of Jesse’s body, Reyes recklessly forgoes his twin shotguns in favor of utilizing both of his hands to support the crumpled figure now relying on him to return to safety. He disregards nearly all of their surroundings, apart from the bare minimum required of him, ignorant to the very real threat of hostile individuals still inhabiting the area to support Jesse through the transport. 

Prioritizing Jesse’s comfort over anything else is paramount to him, and as such he watches each microexpression for any sign of pain even as the younger man phases in and out of consciousness. The man is carried in a bridal style, seemingly without effort on the Commander’s part. He could carry Jesse easy as nothing before, and morbid as the thought is, it crosses his mind that the loss of the limb only made him lighter and easier to carry.

Tearing through the facility, Reyes has no mind for the low-level outlaws lined up detained along some of the walls. Some utter a few pleas for their release, but the majority of them have already accepted their fate being passed off to the agents standing over them. 

Each of them turn or crane their neck as the pounding of heavy boots on the concrete flooring approaches and comes to pass, expressions shifting from variable levels of panic to an odd sort of melancholy, as though Jesse were another captor amongst their ranks as opposed to an agent working with the very officers that had detained them. If Santiago, who had also witnessed Gabriel’s crusade through the compound and subsequent march out, had to place their expressions, they’d be ones of muffled grief. The ways their gazes caught on the ruined body in Reyes’ arms was more akin to the loss of a comrade rather than the apprehension of a traitor. 

As close-knit as the Deadlock gang is, very few of the grunts would ever be on the receiving end of that level of value to their team, especially now that Ashe is left entirely unchecked; rarely would they ever be privy to the amount of unity as the Blackwatch units exhibited in their extraction of Jesse. 

To Ashe, especially, the grunts are nothing more than pawns to carry out laborious tasks and be cast aside as they are no longer useful. Jesse, though apparently with a traitorous streak, was the much fairer leader. He was far more forgiving of mistakes, knowing full well how it was to be at the bottom of the barrel and desperate to climb. He made the efforts to learn everyone’s names, and despite the shady nature of their congregation, managed to pull them together in a ragtag sort of family prior to his enlistment.

The amount of care that Reyes must hold for Jesse is jarring to them, and in a way, makes their hearts ache for their enemy. The way McCree is hemorrhaging, he’d be lucky to even see the evac ship before slipping instead into the arms of his eternal rest.

In the full, unrelenting sun bearing down on them upon their break into daylight only a few minutes later, Gabriel’s vision is entirely washed out for a span of time. Only the starkest of hues are visible to him, of course accentuating the scarlet spatters thoroughly decorating the both of them and the pallor of the cowboy’s flesh. Regardless, he’s unwilling to pass the younger man on to anyone else, brow furrowed with the effort it takes to monitor him in the oversaturation blinding him. 

Santiago is quick to follow him, though also mindful as to avoid straying too far from her assigned position. 

Before he can make out their salvation visually, the roaring hum of the ship’s thrusters fills the rock formation. Dust is whipped up as the medivac ship settles onto its haunches, and Reyes clutches the younger man closer to defend him from the flying grit. Following suit are the prisoner and crew ships, but Reyes could care less about that; his full attention is devoted to getting Jesse adequate medical care before he’s gone for good.

He spares one last glance over his shoulder, and is met with a hard gaze on Santiago’s part. Unspoken uncertainty sings between them, prickling the hair at the backs of their necks, and they each attempt to dispel it with a shared nod. 

A pressurized hiss sounds out in the comparative silence, discounting the flanking ships, as the ship’s door opens. Doctor Ziegler is already standing at attention, haloed by the light cast by the impressive floodlights filling the cabin, and medics rush around them like a living tide in order to take McCree into their care.

Numbness overtakes the flaming anger that laid in his chest before as he’s relieved of Jesse, and passivity is used as a coping mechanism for the precariousness of his charge’s health. The most he can do is try to parse Angela’s prognosis based on her expressions, which by his calculations suggest that Jesse has a snowball’s chance in hell to pull through. It’s fair; what little emoting Jesse was managing minutes before has been replaced with a death mask. His remaining arm hangs loosely at his side, and his muscles hold no tension in them. 

“Commander,” Angela says sharply, her accent thickening the consonants of his title. Just so, he drags his head towards her like a decrepit dog swinging its sagging jowls in the vaguest direction of its master. Eyes failing, mind going, Gabriel tracks her with his eyes but nothing more. It makes Angela frown, his behavior worrisome enough that her initial diagnosis of ass-like stubbornness is dismissed and instead the possibility of a severe reaction to shock is adopted. She was ready to reprimand him for his lack of dropship etiquette up until that point.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit down,” she orders despite her amicable wording. Leaving her digital clipboard in the lower shelf of the surgical table, she hastily makes her way to Reyes, who is yet to respond verbally or show any visible acknowledgement aside from his wavering eye-contact. The last she needs is two high-priority patients in the same ship with limited staff at hand.

No stranger to viscera of any sort, but rather friendly acquaintances, she doesn’t mind the flakes of dried blood peeling off Reyes’ remaining sweatshirt sleeve as she guides him over to a seat. The heat of her body brings the blood to temperature and threatens to resaturate the fabric, smearing into her white gloves and threatening to ruin her newest lab coat.

“Sit still,” she says plainly, even going as far as flashing her palm at him as though he needs the visual cue like an undisciplined child, bent on disruption. Rather, he turns those flattened eyes towards her and nods just so, enough to confirm that he was still retaining higher brain function and hadn’t simply shut down from the stress alone.

Rushing off, as fast as she could fighting against the turbulence, she retrieved her own water bottle from the pilot’s cabin and passed it off to the commander with stern directions to have it all finished by the time they landed. The look she received for the instructions, delivered like a mother assigning a chore rather than a surgeon issuing medical orders, is of very thin annoyance. Five minutes later, she sees him drinking from her heavy-duty bottle, the cold doing good to his system.

Though Reyes is a far cry from his own recovery, he’s able to take some vague comfort in the mere fact that they’re surrounded by a capable medical team who’d be sure to take every action they could to return them to health. His emotions lowered to a dull roar in his ears, as easily ignorable as his heartbeat, as he focuses on more baser sensations such as the chill of the water in his throat or the stiffness of the pleather seat beneath him.

He can nearly forget the situation he’s in, at least until his thoughts are entirely shattered by a pained wail. 

The noise rips from Jesse’s bone-dry throat, more animalistic and fearful than many of the most experienced medical staff had heard before. The combination of the excruciation brought on by sitting bolt upright upon his lucidity and the confused delirium brought on by the sudden change of environments strikes at him, and his overloaded mind has no outlet. 

It even manages to get under combat-hardened Reyes’ skin, no doubt in part to his peculiar relationship to the injured. Mostly, it startles the typical crew members, but it flips Gabriel’s “fight” switch, like a wolf reacting to the yelp of his pup.

“Why isn’t he out?” he immediately demands of the doctor closest to McCree. The poor surgical assistant is unable to respond for a moment, startled out of his wits between the unexpected yowl of agony and the wrath of the Commander.

“Commander--” Angela barks, attempting to intervene before it escalated but she was just a second too slow on the uptake. He rose from his seat and was making great strides towards the petrified assistant nearest to Jesse, his posturing making warning bells go off in her head.

As fast as she can, she stumbles down the stairs of the dropship, nearly tripping over her own feet in her desperation to spare her staff the terrorizing anger of the incenced commander. Before he can reach the gowned man, Angela forces herself between the two.

She pants, jogging being an unexpected necessity. Reyes sizes her up with squared shoulders and narrowed eyes, swimming with something alien to her. This isn’t blindsiding to her, even if her staff were to beg to differ. With one hand outstretched, palm splayed in a prohibiting manner, the other was shoved in her pocket and wrapped around the high-grade defensive weapon she thankfully thought to bring along. A little gift from Moira, specially engineered with Commander Reyes in mind. 

Truthfully, the real surprise has been the increasingly unstable version of their Commander. 

Each time Doctor O’Deorain visited her labs to update Gabriel’s medical records, there is a new psychological report to be made as well. Those closest are enlisted to report such incidents, such as a particular aversion or interest to certain food groups otherwise unspectacular or an acute response to previously unreported triggers in response to the new batch of genetic modifications. 

Other times, the small group of volunteers aren’t necessary for observations. Incidents of unprecedented aggression have been reported with greater frequency and in damaging scenes.

There have been no reported incidents against faculty of either Overwatch or Blackwatch alike, but Angela has been burned too many times to believe in random chance.

“Reyes, return to your seat,” she says sternly, her fingernails catching on the ridges of the military destabilizer. 

Moira held a sickeningly sweet note in her voice as she oh-so-kindly requested Angela to record any and all effects of the weapon as it has never before been tested. With her track record of guinea pigs and participant shortages, Angela is more apt to take her licks before finding out just what the  _ destabilizer  _ is truly designed to do.

“I thought you knocked him out,” he snarls, looming over Angela. She crinkles her nose when he encroaches upon her space more than she would normally be comfortable with, partly because she was growing more intimidated by his aggressive displays by the second and partly because she could smell the genetic byproduct of Moira’s greatest achievement wafting off his shoulders like burning flesh. 

The decimation of the excess cells produced in moments of great stress in preparation for injury, as Moira poetically said. Weaponized cancer is what Angela would rather it be called, as that is what it is.

She is morally against any and all weaponized genetic enhancements, although the prospect of studying the effects of Moira’s tests have crossed her mind plenty of times. If she knew in utmost detail what exactly O’Deorain was tweaking in his base genes, then she may be able to establish preventative measures and instill non-violent solutions to Reyes’ own outbursts.

It may be that the additive stress on his cells causes a neurological reaction, spurring the states of rage he seems apt to fall into. If so, then to remove said stressor from the environment should work to stabilize his natural equilibrium.

“McCree is in no pain,” she says deliberately, stepping forward until her outstretched hand makes contact with the commander’s chest. His nostrils flare and he narrows his eyes in disbelief, glancing over at the young man’s body, stilled once more on the cot. The lack of retaliation is promising, so she steps into the contact, urging him away from her staff member and the patient.

“That didn’t sound like it,  _ doc _ .”

“Psychosomatic leftover,” she says simply, content to ignore the purposeful venom coating her title in favor of de-escalating, “McCree has undergone severe psychological distress which will manifest in outbursts. His mind is catching up with the trauma his body underwent.”

Her explanation seems placating enough to Reyes, smoothing over the ruffled feathers enough for the time being. When another cry cuts through the sound of the ship’s engine and the rush of air against the walls of the ship, Gabriel makes no move to square off with the doctors; he simply sits in place and glowers, stewing in his own negative thought cycles. 

Forcibly keeping himself from McCree as to avoid an uncontrolled outburst on his own part, he abstains from following the surgical team on their departure towards theater. Perhaps with enough space between them, the younger’s cries could be more easily disregarded.

Though presumably mostly divorced from his emotions at this point, at least at most functional levels, something stirs in his chest as he approaches Morrison’s door. He’s no clue what he’d gain from entering, apart from more fuel for his guilt, since he’s sworn to never so much as approach his quarters after hours. The urge passes, and he continues to his space.

Uncomfortable as it has been inhabiting the same space as the medics, splattered with Jesse’s blood like some tasteless modern art installation, it is almost more uncomfortable to be in solitude with his own thoughts. They eat at him, recursive and cyclical and inescapable as a fractal, until he’s left to scour his room for any sort of potential escape. 

As loathe as he is to resort to it, the only viable candidate seems to be the modest alcohol cabinet tucked away near the desk. The garish labels force him to recall his own father, a useless deadbeat using booze to cope with his own incapability of rearing a child.

Even with the entire organization proclaiming their relationship to one another, from right-hand man to teacher’s pet to partner, he doesn’t know Jesse. He may know a fraction of the backstory that the younger man carries with him, but he doesn’t truly  _ know _ him. It’s as though he had compartmentalized Jesse's entire existence to a frame on his desk, a trinket, something to be glanced at from time-to-time, but ultimately be forgotten and simply collect dust. He is sentimental, continually ruminating and aided by the haze of aging, but he neglected to honor the subject trapped inside the black and white.

It feels that now more than ever that the picture on his desk is a funerary portrait. He doesn’t know McCree's state, whether he has coded or if he has pulled through and proven that his fighting spirit hasn’t diminished yet. Gabriel has neglected the younger man once more, as he has done time and time again for the past seven years, it seems. Maybe he is doomed to be like his own father in that respect.

The ceaseless cycle of incriminating thoughts slide down easier with the alcohol aiding it, trivializing the stinging of tears with the burn of his throat as he carelessly knocks back more than his fair share of liquor.

He finds himself disappointed but not surprised that even the considerable amount of alcohol does nothing but amplify the recurrent pattern that continues to devour him as the oroborus consumes itself. Even so, his eyelids are at least somewhat droopier, and sleep could be the very escape he is looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than either of us wanted because life got in the way of things, but we've been drafting further and further out so the fic is nowhere near done. Updates whenever life allows us to sit down and write together.


	7. Squall Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Reyes really hasn’t come to see him yet?”
> 
> “No. I asked how he was doing when I spoke to him in the halls, and asked him to visit Jesse, but he didn’t say anything.”
> 
> Ana purses her lips. It’s odd, to say the least. He knows the sort of impact it would have on Jesse; the kid looks up to him like a saint. It’s making him bitter and resentful. To him, it appears like an inescapable repetition of allowing someone into his life and them subsequently slipping away whenever he needs them most. 
> 
> Evidently, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Jesse’s already withering without so much as a glimpse of Gabriel, and that despair is channeled instead into fuel for his temper. Or there is a chance that their fondness for each other makes the absence longer. The full picture of their relationship is still out of focus for Ana, like a cropped schematic, she’s unable to discern the deeper machinations between them.

Steady, coupled chirps of an EKG are what fall upon Jesse’s ears upon his waking, first a dull annoyance that grows louder and more grating until he’s unable to inhabit the comfort between reality and dream any longer. Mustering the energy to so much as lift his eyelids is almost insurmountable, but through Herculean effort, he pulls through. And he can hardly see through the blur of disuse and built-up grit. If this is what heaven is like, it already sucks. 

Another ping, more steady although louder and more demanding of attention, summons someone from further down the hall, but he’s unable to discern who exactly it is from their footsteps. 

Head swirling like he’s just stepped off a particularly intense carousel ride, the most he’s able to gather is that he’s no longer within the Deadlock compound. There’s no way they’d have the foresight to house some sort of infirmary—their idea of first aid is pouring whiskey on open wounds and drinking it for anaesthetic—nor the care to. And they’d have no mind to keep it this pristine. No, if he’s still alive, it means he somehow scrambled by with his life. Unheard of, especially since he can vaguely recall that Ashe herself saw to him. 

As whoever was beckoned by the warm chime of the alarm enters the room, McCree is overcome by a sudden onslaught of stimulus. He wrenches his eyes shut again to brace for stomach-twisting nausea, aggravated by his irritated throat protesting intubation and cracked lips from forced mouth-breathing. 

He hears them speak; they offer kind words and a soothing, if excited tone, but he’s left staggered by his state and unable to properly process what they’re saying. 

Before he’s got a proper handle on himself, still reeling from his forceful re-entry to this plane, he hears their words quirk up in the telltale lilt of a question. 

Sluggishly frustrated, he forces open his eyes and furrows his brow at the doctor. It takes a few blinks before his vision cooperates, but with borderline-whiplash, he’s able to pinpoint exactly where he is upon taking the figure in. 

Angela. 

She fruitlessly repeats the question again. Even with his strengthening handle on himself, being made to process speech is still just a bit too much to ask. 

Another set of footsteps, and even through post-concussion, post-anaesthesia haze, McCree’s pulse quickens. If he’s here and alive (presumably), then that means he must have been saved, and by who else, if not Reyes? He’d be the only one willing to break mission parameters to prevent just one fatality. 

His gaze slides towards the door that Angela entered, and he notes that somehow even his eyes hurt, just as it opens.

Where he expects the imposing, muscular figure of his commander, he instead sees that of a slender older woman. Her skin is dark and sun-weathered, sporting a tattoo beneath her eye, and smile lines run parenthetical to her mouth. Opioid-induced forgetfulness washes away any concerns that he might have about Gabriel’s absence and replaces it with eagerness upon the visit from a motherly figure. 

“Ana, you’re already here. Is Reyes…?” Angela says. The very last thing she wants to do is crush Jesse’s spirits, so she omits the, ‘still coming’ from her question, but its absence is just as obvious as its inclusion. To Ana, at least. Jesse seems pleased to have company at all, and at least somewhat incapable of processing much linguistic nuance at the moment. 

“A discussion for another time,” Ana says as means to shut down the questioning. She’s already offput by Gabriel’s truancy, given his self-accountability in relation to his agents, but she also has reasons to avoid upsetting Jesse. “I’m here to see how  _ habeebi  _ is doing.”

No drug could suppress his excitement upon seeing Ana, though it is muted given the potency of whatever is run through his IV. 

Ana had been the one to pick up the slack that Reyes left with his rearing of Jesse, quickly coming to take the role of mother figure once the boy had settled in somewhat. Where there had been an insecure, scared, and wounded child before, she made him into a confident and better-adjusted young man. There are some things she had no control over purely because Jesse neglected to share them, but their bond is immutable nonetheless. 

The endearment falls upon eager ears, and he’s about to force some sort of greeting or, at minimum, pleased noise, but he can’t help but follow her line of sight as it repeatedly dips to his shoulder. 

Was he hurt? He didn’t feel hurt. Maybe a headache and some soreness, but the most he feels is sluggish and sick to his stomach. Until he also turns his gaze towards his shoulder. 

Although he could sense where the limb is supposed to be, can flex his fingers and shift his bicep, there’s nothing there when he looks down except pristine white hospital sheets and an empty sleeve in his gown. If he could tear his gaze away from it, he’d look to Angela for explanation. 

“What?” he asks, speaking around his tongue as though it weren’t attached. Though it’s a simple query, no one seems to be able to supply an answer to him. His words are only made more heart-rending with the streak of hoarseness laced through making him seem yet more pitiful in his confusion.

“There was an incident during your mission,” Ana offers. Her once-sunny demeanor has been obscured by dark clouds threatening rain, roiling with contempt for Reyes for allowing McCree to sustain such grievous injuries. 

Not only had Gabriel repeatedly promised Jesse’s safety throughout the mission to the boy’s face, but when Ana had also expressed her fear of the boy’s return to the gorge, Reyes (in his own gruff and indirect way) had assured her that the mission would be carried out without consequence. He cited that  _ Morrison _ would be supplying orders and mission plans, so they had  _ nothing  _ to worry about, but Ana trusted him to safely sidestep those orders when they inevitably became unviable. Not lose Jesse to the very gang they were there to apprehend and go on to slaughter any of them that stood in the path.

Not to mention that Reyes has seemingly decided that his time in solitude to ruminate over his harsh reprimanding is a higher priority than visiting the very boy that he nigh committed war crimes to retrieve. Ana knows he’s always been plagued with guilt and tends to ruminate over any perceived mistakes, and there’s no doubt in her mind that the Commander would allow this to consume him if no one intervenes.

She couldn’t care less in the moment, though. She’s here for Jesse. And luckily, pumped full of pain killers and (not so luckily) distracted with his missing limb, the Commander has seemingly skipped his mind. Had it so much as slightly upset McCree, Ana isn’t certain that she’d be able to keep her collectedness with Gabe.

It bears repeating a few times; Ana first relays what she’s heard from other leaders and agents that were present during the assault, then graduates to reading directly from the drafted mission and medical reports in order to catch McCree up on what he’d missed through the duration of his capture.

Understandably, Jesse doesn’t have the best reaction--it’s kind of difficult to remain calm when one realizes they were inches from death--and it’s hard to reason that only losing one of his limbs is the better of the possible outcomes. She pointedly left out the portions of the medical report mentioning the lacerations along the trunks of each of his other limbs indicating that, should he have been left alone for any longer, he’d be entirely devoid of his extremities. The cowboy is already pale enough, whether from pain or from the dawning weight of the situation.

Ana does her utmost to break the news gently and assist his acceptance of reality, but her maternal presence has its limits. Especially when she’s also appointed to helping with damage mitigation, creating high demand for her presence anywhere but with the maimed agent. 

The drugs ease the mental toll inflicted by the trauma at least temporarily, always beckoning McCree into the welcoming arms of sleep and dulling the rising panic in his stomach. He’s aware that there’ll be implications on his career, but he truly cannot care yet. 

When his eyes finally slip shut again, Ana shares a glance with the doctor. Both of them know that his physical recovery might be less taxing than his mental one, not only because of his impairment, but because of his entanglement with Reyes, who seems to have fostered his own maladaptations already.

Silence envelopes the room in the absence of Ana. Fluttering to and fro like a canary about a cage, Angela makes her rounds around the room. She works without superficial sounds to fill the stillness; her flats pattering against the tiles, the sink spilling unhurriedly over her hands, the stretch of latex gloves over her damp skin, and the ceaseless beeping of McCree’s vitals all coalesce into an orchestra. This late, it plays only for the two of them.

Over the layer of static it takes on as though it were coming through an old stereo interface, McCree stares blankly at his sheets, awake purely on technicality rather than awareness. His world is nothing but an oscillating balance between pristine awareness and tampered half-consciousness. Ana had done a considerably good job at keeping his brain moving despite the sludge of medication running through his system still. Now that she has returned to her own quarters, there is next to nothing but the white noise of the infirmary to keep him active and alert. His mind stagnates, flicking lazily between self-pity and the unplaceable sense of something missing.

He stares intently at the bedsheets in all of their synthetic, polyester glory, trying to grab ahold of that nagging feeling he awoke with. It felt like he left the stove on, as though he had just set his keys down just to turn around and find them missing. Everytime he catches the tail of the thought, it turns the corner and leaves his hands empty.

Like a mirror clouded with condensation or peering through a fog, McCree can only distinguish the vague figure of someone important to him. His brain won’t allow him to attribute any features to them, only that they are painful in their vacancy and equally painful in their presence; they are both a silhouette and a cutout all at once.

Approaching his bed side with a hand full of gauze and clean wraps, Angela gently extends her other hand and rests it on his bandaged shoulder. Snapping his head up, McCree loses the disgruntled look for a startled one before it smoothes out. 

“Hi, Angie,” is all he says, going back to dutifully watching his blankets. Even a gentled touch from someone like Angela felt wrong and only served to remind him of his loss. Truthfully, he doesn’t think he can stand the thought of anyone touching him. 

_ He  _ feels wrong, not just his mangled, missing limb.

Sighing quietly through her nose, she offers a little squeeze before she retracts her hand, “hi, Jesse. I need to change your bandages.” Nodding stiffly, he angles his head in the opposite direction. Can’t say he’s ever fancied doctors visits before now, and doesn’t see himself loving them when he leaves. 

As his empty sleeve is pulled and folded out of the way, he sucks in a breath and holds it as though it would make the experience anymore pleasant. Some of the machines voice their disapproval. Looking anywhere but where Angela has begun to unravel him, he stares intently at the door, so desperately wishing that Ana had stayed just a bit longer. She may be the only one he can stomach to see and see him like this.

She’s the only person he can remember at the moment, having just seen her. Everyone else is blacked out in the lineout of his memory. Fingers scrunching his blanket, he struggles to keep his eyes anywhere else as he wets his lips and talks. 

“S‘nyone else gon’ come?” he asks slowly with his tongue thick like molasses. 

“No.”

“Oh.” 

The tug at his chest is an unexpected emotional reaction to her simple answer, as he was thinking he’d be happy with the opportunity to sleep off the anaesthetic. Turns out, it just made his heart heavy, as he blinks rapidly for a moment before nodding out a little “okay.”

Confused, Doctor Ziegler re-evaluates her tone-- her voice wasn’t cutting or cruel, was it? Hesitating as she starts to apply a clean wrap to the damaged limb, she tries to swallow Jesse’s heavy sadness like a bitter pill. It refuses to go down despite the several attempts to digest it, burning her throat. She clears it and adds a saccharine lilt to her words to lick any wounds.

“I’ll ask Reyes if anyone would like to visit tomorrow if you’re feeling up to it,” she says as she ties off the loose ends and smoothes his gown back into place. 

Realistically, Angela expects the final decision to be a firm ‘no’ when he rouses the next morning as the heavy medications will have been flushed from his system. The first few days will be the most excruciating for Jesse, physically and psychologically. Company will be a comfort, for sure, and she can only hope that Ana stays true to her word and visits as often as she can, as long as she can.

“Reyes?” he gasps, whipping his head around fast enough to make himself dizzy. The name feels right on his tongue, making his chest feel a little warm, although that may be nausea punishing him for his enthusiasm.

“Yes, I’ll talk to him,” she says, gathering the discarded bandages and simpering at his puppy-like excitement. Earlier, he hadn’t reacted to the brief mention of his name nor his absence, although he had just come up from his medicated sleep at that time. Peering longways at McCree as she walks across the room, she catches a lopsided grin on his face as he thinks on it. Respectfully, she turns the other cheek and lets the agent have his moment.

_ That  _ was what was nagging at him-- Reyes. Enthralled with the visage of Gabriel, he breaks out in a toothy grin at his slate gray sheets. 

“S’he comin’?” he asks, excitement evident in his voice even if Angela couldn’t see his innocent beaming. Awkwardly, she looks away, busying herself with straightening the odd piece of equipment here and there. There would be no easy way to let Jesse down, so she decides to rip the bandaid off fast.

“Er… Reyes wasn’t available when I called,” she offers, peeking over at McCree after a couple beats of silence. He was crestfallen, frowning at his lap before raising his head.

“...Why?” he asks in a tiny voice, much like a dejected child. Feeling her whole person twinge with pity, she finds the best excuse she could conjure and delivers it as honey-voiced as she could muster. 

“I think he’s already retired to his quarters for the night, he’s been busy,” Angela says as though it were actually matter-of-fact and not a shot in the dark. Jesse scowls incredulously before slowly dragging his eyes around the room, searching.

“Wh… what time s’it?” he says after realizing there isn’t a clock affixed to any of the walls. Instinctively, Doctor Ziegler flips her wrist over to peer at her watch, only to realize that McCree wasn’t nearly as gullible as she took him for, even heavily inebriated. 

“Quarter ‘til eleven.”

“Gabe’s still up,” he says definitively, his vexed expression now aimed at her as he grows agitated. Unearthing his brain after days of disuse, he feels confident in his frustration as he uncovers odd memories of dark bags under Reyes’ eyes and extra cups of coffee with morning drills. “He stays up,” he states before he draws in on himself as his too-strong-emotions throw his weakened body off center, gritting out past his nausea, “even though he knows better.”

“Well…” she starts before a sigh works itself out of her chest as she caves, “he might be in a conduct meeting.” At the moment, it wasn’t the wisest to delve into the whereabouts of Commander Reyes, especially as McCree was fresh out of a coma and souped up on a cocktail of opioids to keep him comfortable. No amount of painkillers will silence the mind, only exaggerate emotion, as evident by his rampant enthusiasm and short temper.

Typically, she would cut to the chase and ignore all placating middlemen. Angela has never been an emotional giver, obvious by how quickly McCree has gnawed through her empathetic patience. Even as she gauges Jesse’s rising anger akin to a beehive and her blunt words a crude kick, she figures she would rather get stung now while the hive was down in numbers than when it has recovered. 

At the mention of conduct meetings, McCree’s anger hits a brick wall of confusion. Ana had tried her best to jog his memory by reading off the mission reports, but she had taken a tentative approach to it. Neglecting to provide more graphic information such as any of Reyes’ actions taken after his abduction or the post-op statistics, he wasn’t truly aware of what happened aside from a vague image. The painting he received was only half-rendered, if that, and left a lot to the imagination.

Conscious enough to know what a conduct meeting was and the context in which the vast majority of meetings are assigned, he pales. 

“Conduct meeting?”

He ensures his expression remains blank, or at least devoid of the anxiety that is coming to a boil in his lungs. Jesse doesn’t remember what happened--obviously--but he does remember, in brief flashes of memory, a few snippets of tender moments that he and the Commander have shared. Regardless of how intimate those moments are, whether innocent or less-than, they’re decisively forbidden given the power imbalance. 

They’d simply run out of luck. Of course they’d be caught--it was just a matter of time. And Reyes would take the fall for something that Jesse has almost always initiated. 

His silence still betrays his worry, just limits how much Angela can help him with specific issues. She can tell he’s upset, but assumes it’s related to the mission as opposed to his own moral crisis. 

“Commander Reyes showed explicit disregard for mission objectives in his goal to overtake the facility,” she says all at once, “so his superiors are deciding what to do with him.”

“I… I don’t remember the mission objectives,” McCree croaks out, scowling at the bedsheets as he struggles through the medicated haze.

She’s never been the one to coddle and coo at her patients-- however, Jesse is a little different than a normal patient. He’s more of a… pesky little brother that badgers her while she’s at work and makes the days a little more bearable despite the teasing. It may be by extension, seeing as she holds Commander Reyes in high regard for being the one to offer her the position she was in and not being shy about expressing his gratitude.

Reyes and McCree were commonly slipped together in sentences until their conjoined presence became a single breath. Reyesnmccree often found themselves in the infirmary more often than other operants, and predominantly for sparring-related injuries. Their presence was a little bit of light in her day, as they still smiled and thanked her when she was done stinging their skin with antiseptic and stitching their gashes closed.

It did feel odd to have McCree alone in her infirmary for days on end without Reyes’ appearance, but he  _ has _ been awfully busy between meetings with Morrison and the Overwatch board. That was one of the biggest differences between Ana and her appearance and Reyes’-- their status and priorities. 

If she were being honest with herself, she couldn’t  _ logically  _ say why she thought about the two of them as an item. McCree and Reyes were their own, separate people. Both had their duties and obligations, and on the far end of the spectrum, neither of them have ever hinted at any extra-platonic involvement with each other. If anything, she’s witnessed McCree’s sexuality at play, making it obvious that the notion of the two men together was an impossibility.

They just so happen to appear together more often than not, and that may just be standard favoritism. Every captain, sergeant, and commander has their specially picked right-hand-man, their go-to agent that is often the best product of their hand rearing. 

More apt to attribute the earlier enthusiasm to being a typical trained guard dog excited at the prospect of seeing his owner again, she feels just in sticking to her guns but… there would be no reason for McCree to get so bent out of shape over Reyes’ absence unless they were closer than what is traditional.

A psychologist has been needed for a good long time, she knows that.  _ Everyone  _ knows that. Several of McCree’s superiors have personally approached her with snippets of personality that deviate from the norm-- constant war between narcissism and self-deprecation, a high demand for praise and attention from specific peoples, and an imbalance between his level of charisma and his asocial tendencies. An odd ball for sure, she has recommended a plethora of psychiatrists, all specializing in different fields, but all of them were rejected.

Unfortunately, they picked him up at the cusp of eighteen when he was fighting the hands that fed and clothed him. Taken from a gang of scum, it was hard to distinguish what was simply side effects to that walk of life and what was actually a cause for concern. It took until he was no longer a charge of the organization for him to mellow down and for his captains and commanders to get to know him for who he was-- more than just a raggedy kid with a foul mouth and a nicotine addiction-- but by then, all internal issues were quick to be swallowed and all therapist recommendations were consequently denied.

Watching him, Angela is no fool to trauma and the intricate webs it can spin in one’s head like a black widow slowly poisoning her prey. She sighs and moves her hands to her lap, toying with her fingertips. 

“Mission objectives were to seize the illegal weapons stash and to incarcerate Deadlock affiliates.”

Raising his head slowly, Jesse cocks his head like a bewildered dog. Clearly, the mission as a whole was still foggy. The only thing she could think to do, having only been there to retrieve the young man, was let him hear it from the source itself-- or, the next best thing, seeing as Reyes has vanished into thin air. 

Rising from her perch, she disappears into her office while McCree watches, puzzled. What part did Gabriel disregard? Did he just… forget to take the weapons stash? 

Angela is quick to return, her flats loud against the tile floors amidst the resounding quiet like a march. She’s holding an extensive packet in her hands, the very packet that Ana had read from like a bedtime story, left behind for Angela whenever he grew lucid enough for proper thought and curiosity. 

Thumbing through the many pages, she hovers at the edge of his bed before retaking her seat as she finds the information that Ana had abstained from divulging.

“Projected incarcerated was five hundred. Approximate incarcerated...” Angela hesitates, her eyes skimming the rest of the page as her index slides along, “forty-seven.” Nose scrunching, McCree stares at the packet as though he could see through it if he tried hard enough. Numbers were never his strong suit, and the morphine was making it even harder to think.

“What happened?” he asks, and with the look of disconnected pity Angela provides, he feels like an idiot for asking. Sighing, she thumbs through the plentiful pages, the room occupied with the sound of fluttering paper and medical feedback.

"Total casualties estimated to be... three hundred and some change,” Angela flatly, to which McCree falters as his mind struggles to connect the dots. When the pieces of the puzzle click together, he visibly double-takes in surprise. Angela only crosses her legs at the knee and pushes her glasses back, an edge of cold sorrow to her blue eyes as though she were mourning not the many lives lost but for the loss of McCree’s innocence.

Whatever image of Reyes that McCree had constructed in his mind must’ve been cracked, as his first instinct was to abjectly deny the allegations as though they weren’t printed in confidential paperwork as fact.

“Wh-- Reyes didn’t do all that!” McCree barks indignantly, even as his voice struggles to behold his anger, “why’s  _ he  _ getting all the conduct meetings?” 

Without glancing down at the document as though the words were imprinted on her eyes like lightning, she states verbatim: “All personnel assigned to Commander Reyes verified a confirmed count of zero hostile casualties. Commander Reyes established responsibility for all known hostile casualties.” 

The words sink heavy as a stone in Jesse’s stomach. Neither of them speak for a moment, the steady beeping filling the space of words as they stare at each other. Angela’s eyes pin him down, icy and heavy like a glacier rolling over him.

Angela has resigned herself to the fact that Commander Reyes has slipped, even if just so, and she is certain that it is because of Moira’s little experiments. Whatever has spurred Reyes to genetically alter his very DNA is beyond her, but she fears that he may be in over his head. Whatever his goal was, there have been clear complications. Moira’s testing has led to increasingly volatile behavior in the commander-- a clear stain on his near perfect track record.

Gathering himself as though he were just caught choking on food, McCree finds he still has trouble stomaching the reality he’s awoken into.

“He’s prob’ly jus’ covering for them,” he stammers after a moment, “h-he’s not like  _ that--” _

“Commander Reyes is an honest man,” she interrupts quickly, “you of all people know that.” While her tone isn’t harsh, McCree recoils as though he had been struck. The words are pointed like a dagger against him, but Angela wasn’t the one holding the handle. Struggling to swallow and digest this pertinent information about his commanding officer, it was up to him whether or not he accepted the ugly truth or if he continued living in his idealistic world.

Eyes tearing away from hers, they fall on the hefty packet in her hands. McCree knows how conduct reports are structured, how they are orchestrated. A separation of witnesses and suspects would have been enforced to prevent cross-contamination. All inconsistencies would be investigated and included in the reports. They hold as much power over an officer’s head as a sin of a priest's soul.

Swallowing thickly, he finds himself conflicted. If Angela wasn’t stretching the truth, then he isn’t sure what he would do.

Shifting in the hospital bed, he makes as though he were grabbing for the packet. A tense moment falls between them as nothing happens, and Angela tentatively reaches forward to grab his right wrist to manually twist it and deliver the packet. Neither of them speak of it, and McCree sniffles as he reads, trying to obscure it with a shuddering cough.

Angela offers him the humility of deniability, turning her attention on other menial matters. Rising to change out an IV bag and note his vitals, the sound of shuffling papers accompanies the sift of fabric and the mechanical songs of the infirmary. She gently maneuvers his arm to adjust the IV line before she unhooks the emptied bag off the rack. Turning to retrieve another, McCree stops her with a quiet noise.

“I… what’s… c-’cock id--’”

“‘Coccidioidomycosis,” she says as though it were as easy as a day of the week, “or valley fever.” McCree blinks blankly at her as if the proper pronunciation and colloquial term served him any good. Momentarily distracted with his vitals, she falters before she explains.

“Respiratory fungal infection,” she says after a beat, “Obviously not top priority, but I had noticed.” Angela speaks monotonously as her attention is elsewhere, pausing to jot down his blood pressure, “a physical was conducted prior to departure per protocol and your physical was good, you have no known allergies, and no history of chronic disorders.”

So he picked something up while he was on the field and got sick. Nodding along a little absently, he allows himself the smallest simper as he thought of Gabriel. He was right, as ever.

Sighing wistfully, he looks over the rest of the infirmary report and the laundry list of noted injuries. It’s extensive for sure. On top of the unexpected ailment, there was nearly a page worth of noted injuries. Several ribs, numerous gashes and gouges, severe concussion, and… dismemberment, listed at the bottom of the page as though it weren’t the most glaring injury upon examination.

He thumbs through the medical records, the report of procedures and initial observations. Pausing, he squints at a small box of text underneath his concussion diagnostic.

“Angie?” he croaks out. From where she has since returned, she pauses as she starts the new IV drip. It trickles down the tubing into his hand. It feels cold, he thinks, and it distracts him as he can’t tell if he’s imagining it.

“Hm?” Her voice brings him back, and he has to remember what he was thinking in the first place.

“...How long?” he asks uneasily after looking over the paper once more. The same box of text jogged his memory.

“How long were you out or how long will you  _ be  _ out?” she says as though it were any ordinary question. He supposes that to her, it very much was, but McCree feels his mouth go dry. He hadn’t even considered the future to any extent, given that the past was still a blurry mystery.

“I… both.”

“Well...” she says, voice conveying the mental preparation in the wake of a heavy conversation, “give me a moment, Jesse.” 

He could only watch as she disappeared into her office with that clipboard of hers and return. She had removed her glasses and pinned them in the neck of her undershirt; it was a small detail he picked up as he tracked her movements, following her as she grabbed one of the visitation chairs and set it on his right. 

Breathing in a deep sigh through her nose, McCree interrupts her before she can get any words out. 

“Should I be scared?”

For a moment, she simply blinks blankly at him before simpering. “No, you shouldn’t be anymore.” Her hand feels cold and professional over his, but he can’t deny the warmth of human contact nor the placating effect of it.

“Did you read the list of injuries?” she asks. The topic of ‘how long’ is never an easy conversation to have, especially with a militant. Any time wasted is time taken off their lives, they seem to believe. At least now, she can ease into the conversation with an icebreaker of sorts. He nods, and his eyes narrow with suspicion. 

“You had sustained a concussion. Normally, concussions are treated with general rest-- you’ve had one or two before, I believe,” she says, picking at her fingertips. Receiving another confirmation, she presses on. “You had a  _ severe  _ concussion. We couldn’t alleviate the pressure in your skull with medicine so... we…” pausing to gesture vaguely, she stamps her lips together in a moment of thought before she spoke again, “...allowed the body to take care of itself on its own terms.”

The expression of suspicion broke into thinly-veiled horror. Angela slouches the slightest bit as her brows furrow with empathy. The concept of a coma is hard to wrap one’s head around, the notion of a ‘long sleep’ more misleading than some would give it credit for. Her heart panged for McCree and the grief he was only beginning to feel. It will take a while for the full weight of his new reality to set in, likely once he wakes tomorrow, and even longer to sort through all of it.

“We induced a coma to keep you alive. You were out for four days,” she says, and when the shock doesn’t dissolve from his features, she tries to chip at it, “which is good-- you were expected to be asleep at least a full week.”

It did nothing to console McCree as he blinked at her, eyes unseeing as he choked on her words. Four days he was asleep? Things move fast in Blackwatch and he was asleep for almost an entire week with no idea of what even came of the mission that decommissioned him in the first place. 

The disbelief is palatable with how McCree sits motionlessly, not offering any verbal reciprocation. Her fingernails plucked at each other in a battle of uncertainty until she reached out and squeezed his hand. It did something, getting a short, sidelong glance from the young man before he hastily ripped it away. 

Glancing at her watch, she suddenly feels the weight of the digital watch hands weighing on her. She’s astonished McCree has stayed awake and generally coherent for this long, but she doubts he can keep it up much longer-- even though a coma supplies plenty of bed rest, no one wakes up raring to go.

“I think it’s best if you get some sleep,” she says, rising from her seat, “we can talk it over in the morning.”

The only response she gets is a wet sniffle and a sharp nod at the wall, not her. 

  
  


As early as a week, and Jesse is already making promising progress, though he’s just barely beginning his journey to normalcy again. It’s not without a back-and-forth; each time Angela can see Jesse beginning to improve, he asks to see Reyes, asks if Reyes is going to visit soon, and without fail is shot down. 

She tells him kindly, holding on however flimsily to her patience with him, reminding Jesse that Reyes is busy or hasn’t responded to any messages sent his way, but no matter how gently she words it, it always leads to a shutdown or a snapped, “forget it.”

As McCree loses hope of Reyes ever gracing him with his presence, it soon becomes a subject to be avoided rather than one of childish optimism. As the dust settles around the mission, both within the organization and with public relations, Gabriel has fewer and fewer reasons not to visit his agent. Apart from the glaringly obvious to McCree--he is ashamed of his trysts with Jesse and is trying to place space between them.

Talk of his recovery falls to the wayside as it inevitably circles back to Gabriel’s absence, and as such, Angela is left with only small talk and silent companionship with which to keep Jesse company. His recovery doesn’t even come up again, apart from a few offhanded comments about the quality of scarring that the wound is exhibiting, until Ana manages to make time to visit him once again.

She perches on the side of the bed as Angela is changing his linens again, observing carefully. It isn’t that she doesn’t trust the doctor, but rather that she wants to see it with her own eyes.

The flesh is mending as best it can, but whatever serrated instruments Ashe had used had hacked and shredded the skin wherever it touched. It’s healing well, if that’s taken into account, but without that context it appears terrible. No matter what miracles she could work, it was going to be gnarled and sore on the eyes. 

Weighted silence sits between them for a moment before Ana finally addresses the elephant in the room. 

“It’s healing up nicely, Jesse. Especially for it just being two weeks. Has Reyes come and seen your progress yet?” She asks it innocently enough, but she’s well aware that Jesse can be a little volatile under the best of conditions. 

“Why would he? He doesn’t care about me anymore. Just wanted to use me for that mission and leave me to rot in here after I stopped being useful,” he spits. He’s been sitting on that one for a while, allowing it to recirculate in his mind over and over, just waiting for someone to come along and give the final push. 

Sure, he feels bad for snapping at Ana, who asked purely out of curiosity and has the best intentions for her adopted son. But the relief to have gotten those ugly words out, to have the cycle of self-hatred disrupted for even a moment, is much greater than any regret. 

Having raised a teenager, she is no stranger to emotional outbursts, however rational, but there’s something deeper underlying the boy’s anger that can’t be attributed to young-adult angst. 

Realistically, considering the subject of Jesse’s anger, it must be Reyes’ absence. They hadn’t been further than a few feet away from each other at most during general free time since Jesse’s enlistment, and the gaping void left by his lack of visiting must be more unbearable than McCree could express—it is more akin to a prison cell than a hospital room, in his eyes, when the one person he wants to see most refuses to so much as observe him through the window into his room. 

“He cares about you,” she says firmly, though ultimately uselessly. Once the boy has his mind set on something, rooted in reality or not, it is nigh impossible to convince him otherwise. He’s got to convince himself of it, and Reyes isn’t making that easy on him. 

Ana receives no verbal response from Jesse; he turns his head away from her as though it would make him disappear, and she sighs. She stays for the remainder of the time that it takes for the doctor to wind the fabric bandaging around Jesse’s wound, hoping that he’d swallow his pride and either apologize or at least continue talking. 

When neither happens and the cowboy seems content to sit and stew, eyes watching but not seeing the EKG charts dip and bob, Ana resigns to speak with Angela in the hall. She pats his side affectionately before rising, and is met with silence. 

He’s not so stupid as to think they’re talking about anything but him once they’re out of earshot, but for once, Jesse can’t care about what they think. No one seems to think he deserves any independent thought or opinion, so why should theirs have any sway on him?

“Reyes really hasn’t come to see him yet?”

“No. I’ve seen him once outside of his quarters after he was cleared to return to his duties. I asked how he was doing when I spoke to him in the halls, and asked him to visit Jesse, but he didn’t say anything.”

Ana purses her lips. It’s odd, to say the least. He knows the sort of impact it would have on Jesse; the kid looks up to him like a saint. Not to mention the fact that Reyes must know more about McCree’s past than he’d ever shared with her—he has to know about the unsteady father figure Jesse was burdened with as a child. 

It’s making him bitter and resentful. To him, it appears like an inescapable repetition of allowing someone into his life and them subsequently slipping away whenever he needs them most. Perhaps he’s not quite cognizant enough yet to put two-and-two together, but it’s not a difficult pattern to draw, especially when compared to the rest of his lived experience. 

Evidently, absence does not make the heart grow fonder, at least between the two of them. Jesse’s already withering without so much as a glimpse of Gabriel, and that despair is channeled instead into fuel for his temper. Or there is a chance that their fondness for each other makes the absence longer. The full picture of their relationship is still out of focus for Ana, like a cropped schematic, she’s unable to discern the deeper machinations between them. 

As the remaining agents participating in the final combat simulation of the night funnel out for the night, leaving behind the heat of working bodies, the stench of sweat on the practice mats, and sudden isolation for Reyes, the insidious cocktail of regret and disheartenment sink into his psyche again. It creeps into the edges of his thoughts as water damage creeps onto pages, smudging the ink irreparably. 

For any duration of time he finds himself engrossed in his work or in the company of his agents, he’s able to fend those thoughts off for some time. Devoting himself wholly to his task is a default; it allows him some reprieve between the valleys of despair. It never lasts, and the thoughts return to gnaw at his bones as soon as he’s left without distraction. 

In the more recent few days, not even devoting every modicum of his energy to whatever task is at hand is sufficient enough to stave off (what he likens to) grief that cuts into him as river water cuts into rock. Each time he so much as sees the directory signs in the hallways indicating the direction of the infirmary, his guilt threatens to swallow him. He instead returns to his old vice of constant, low-level intoxication to dull the ache that plagues his soul. 

Like the welcoming arms of an old friend, he easily reacquaints himself with his flask. The item is battered and scratched from its previous tour of duty, ages ago, when it was mostly just he and Morrison. 

Rather than a memento of easier times as it should be, a reminder that he’s never alone in the world so long as its silver shimmer is within arm’s reach, it’s a reminder of just how much he has been taken advantage of by the other Commander. And now how badly he’s failed Jesse. It serves as a wretched motif that haunts him as he makes his way through the winding paths of interpersonal relationships as one would blindly navigate a cavern. 

One swallow couldn’t hurt. And another for good measure. Enough to chase the bitter memories away and close the simulation rooms. One more, and the flask is obscured by his hoodie. 

As he locks the door to the simulation room after ensuring everything is in order for tomorrow, he’s finally able to pinpoint why the simulations feel alien, despite him and each of the agents having carried them out innumerable times: Jesse. Or, the lack thereof. The air of the room feels off, not having to shift and accommodate for Jesse’s typical bluster filling the space. 

If he weren’t so certain that it is just his paranoia selectively interpreting the situation, he might think that his agents were reacting to his absence as well. Nothing about such a repetitive task has felt familiar since before the damned mission. The winding halls of Headquarters seem to be more alien than familiar, in spite of the number of years he’s given, boots stomping against the lacquered concrete floors as he carried out whatever menial task he was assigned. 

His footsteps become monotonous and fade into background noise as his mind slips instead to McCree as he is now. Laying in the infirmary alone, no doubt burdening Angela and Ana and whoever else is left trying to appease him in his own absence. He sees the messages and hears the comms pleading for his presence as they come, and it’s a deliberate effort to ignore them.

Jesse may think he knows what he wants, that Reyes’ mere presence will be a salve to all of his wounds—mental or physical—but in reality, Gabriel knows it will cause nothing but heartache in the long run. It’s best to keep the distance he’s afforded. Maybe he just isn’t meant for relationships. Or in this case, flings. 

He’s not as used to his alcohol as he was before sobering up the first time. It’s not a dull, pleasant buzz drawing his attention away from whatever is macerating in his mind. Nausea tugs at his guts—not enough to make him lose what meager dinner he could stomach, but enough to recall feelings of sea-sickness one of the miserable times he had been stationed at sea. Subtly, the ground sways beneath his feet. The flask is lighter than he thought. 

_ Was it just a fling?  _

Deep down, he hopes so. It relieves him of some of the guilt and repercussions a long-term attachment might entail should they somehow end up separated again. He may be able to get away with this one incident—by the skin of his teeth—but he’d be hard-pressed to find a defense for mass-murder a second time. This time he’s only been saved by the bare fact that Jesse is so grievously injured. Had he been fine, taken as a hostage but without any damage, Reyes would find himself unemployed, if not behind bars. 

It takes a couple extra seconds to find the right key and steady his hand as he inserts it into the door of his quarters as his mind resides elsewhere. He’s adrift, between the memories of Jack’s treatment of him and the slew of emotions that his own agent brings. 

There’s another day of meetings tomorrow. He recognizes that he needs to pay for his insubordination and senseless violence—to think otherwise would be childish and ignorant. But that doesn’t prevent Morrison’s constant harping from grating on his nerves. 

He’s no stranger to taking his licks where deserved, but Morrison takes it to another level. They don’t seem like conduct meetings until the other commanders speak—it feels like court hearings. Or public executions. And he’d be lucky if those weren’t what was next. 

The key shifts the lock easily, and a thud echoes down the otherwise empty hall. 

Reyes killed all those people because he thought he’d failed to protect McCree; he brought him straight into the lion’s den, ignorant to any of his protests, and allowed the lions to have their way. If he were a better listener—if he were a better  _ leader _ —he would have taken Jesse seriously. If he were a better leader, he wouldn’t have let Jesse get so close to the thing he feared so much. 

He  _ did  _ fail to protect him. Not only is he missing an arm, and had god-knows what else done to him by Ashe, Gabriel failed to protect Jesse from his own desires. Any self-respecting commander would have been able to pick out his need for a strong figure in his life and not have allowed his own conflict of interests to get in the way of the agent’s potential. 

He hasn’t found the stomach to look at McCree yet. As many comms as he gets saying the boy wants his presence, he suspects it’s a ploy to allow them a break from tending to him; had Jesse done the same to him, he wouldn’t want to see him. The best he could hope for was for Jesse to somehow forgive him sometime in the future, and that is a long shot considering how life-altering losing a limb is. Reyes wouldn’t be angry if McCree refused to speak to him for the remainder of his enlistment, or asked to transfer commanders. 

As he pushes the door in, the garbled sound of someone sharing a greeting with him comes to pass, and he fails to respond in time. Reyes turns to see who it is, brows knitted in a scowl of concentration, but he’s unable to see who it is or reply with a typical grunt before they turn the corner. He’s had more than he thought; his reflexes are shot. 

He needs to be more careful if he’s not to get caught drinking too much again. 

Closing the door behind him, he nearly misses the door frame as he turns around to brace against it. The wall feels cool against his temple. 

In the unlikely event that Jesse truly  _ does _ want to see Reyes again after such a blunder— _ why _ ? Their fling is something he half-wishes that each of them could just forget about. It was a mistake. It succeeded in nothing but weakening the walls Reyes had put up in wake of Morrison’s abuse, and he’s not at all interested in vulnerability again. Not so easily. 

Compounded with his own issues, each time Reyes would allow him closer, he’d dance around it. Jesse’s courage would come and go as his mind battled with itself, stressed under the constant push-and-pull of his own trauma. He doesn’t want to facilitate something so immediately harmful, particularly when it comes with other, unique risks later down the line, should their fling become serious given the power imbalance. 

Gabriel’s instinct to pull away at the first inkling of deeper intentions was evidently what he should have listened to; nothing ends up in his favor when he ignores his gut. He wishes that he’d given in to his first thought to bark at McCree to get back upon the first grace of their lips, asserted that he’s not Jesse’s equal and shouldn’t be treated as such. 

He sighs, his train of thought derailed and set on a different track with scarcely a provocation. But he’s not prepared for another conduct meeting tomorrow; not when all that it entails is Morrison covering everything he’s done wrong, over and over in increasing detail. Jack has a tendency to magnify Gabriel’s flaws as it is, blowing minor missteps on Reyes’ part out of proportion and calling his authority into question. 

This time, not only has he directly contradicted given orders, but it resulted in catastrophe with PR and has higher-ups questioning the true purpose of having Gabriel in a position of power. No doubt, spurred on by Morrison’s rhetoric. 

It makes him nauseous, the way the Strike Commander’s words are laced with malevolent underpinnings as he—again—recounts the death toll versus the total incarcerated.. His smirk betrays that his purpose isn’t to keep Overwatch’s motives pure, but to somehow drive this mistake like a dagger into Gabriel’s career. 

It only seems to add fuel to the pyre when he sits, only silently blinking and speaking when asked a question. He never elaborates, knowing that each additional word surrenders more ammunition for Morrison to cross-examine him with. It makes him feel weak—like he’s backed into a corner—and realistically, he supposes that he is. Any protest on his part would dig him further into a hole and tempt him into spouting untruths, while his abject silence is essentially an admission of guilt. 

Again, Morrison wields his authority as deftly as his words, and he’s ensnared Reyes yet again. He’s brought back to the glory days of Overwatch, when it was just getting off the ground. There was no need for Jack to be so covert with his manipulation, given minimal oversight. Outright, he’d gaslight Gabriel into believing that his mistakes were his own, lie about the outcome of particular missions, and near the end, entirely fabricated scenarios in order to uplift himself into power. 

Gabriel had a difficult time differentiating between falsehoods and reality for a long time, as their own bosses, without fail, took Morrison’s side. Even now, there are certain missions that he cannot recall if they were successes or failures, and he’s unable to discern where he made a mistake as opposed to the other man blaming it on him. 

Knowing that it would be nothing but trouble, he still pursued a romantic relationship with Jack. It lasted even through this treatment—even as he reinforced the idea that Gabriel was a charity case, suited only for dirty work—as a result of the gaslighting, he became somewhat dependent on Morrison to separate empirical fact from lies. And he, in truth, was scared to find out how the abuse would worsen in the event that they separated. 

It wasn’t a pretty separation when it did happen; it wasn’t all at once, but one of the contributing factors was grievous. Negging and underhanded insults were almost so common as to be ignored, but Jack was speedily called back to reality when he got so bold as to devalue Reyes in the company of Ana and Fareeha. 

In one of his speeches given, just like today, during a conduct meeting for something comparatively minor, Morrison not-so-subtly likened Gabriel to a lowly migrant worker. The parallel he was trying to draw wasn’t even moderately veiled, as Morrison had grown emboldened by the lack of discipline he’d received, and he attempted to diminish Reyes’ standing with the room. 

Ana was hot on his heels though, delivering a scathing rebuttal that Reyes truly didn’t believe he was deserving of. She’d caught on early that the mission reports and statistics rarely matched up with Morrison’s tale of events. In private, she supported Gabriel, and offered a listening ear should he need to be grounded in reality again, but this public shaming disgusted her into action. 

It was Ana that finally drilled into Reyes’ stubborn head that Jack was terrible for him, and that no attempts at mediation or disregard of the issues at hand would resolve their problems. The immigrant comment wasn’t the first time that Jack had tried to ridicule him, and Ana matched the anger each and every time she countered, but it was her bitter response that finally splintered the glass maze of mirrors and fog that he found himself caught up in. 

The crack at his middle name— _ Francis _ —or the obvious fact that Morrison was the person delegating work that he himself was putting off wasn’t what finally drained the fog from his consciousness, but Ana’s fair assertion that without Gabriel to scapegoat, Morrison would be the very thing he despised: another invisible, unimpressive working man. 

That made him stand a little straighter—that someone else recognized the mind-numbing number of hours he poured into his career. Before, his title, “Commander” was nothing more than just that; it was a set of italicized and capitalized letters next to his name in newspapers. Ana’s spitting fury, barely-contained resentment finally boiling over, helped him reconsider the weight granted by his title. 

What once was scuffed and oxidized with neglect, she helped him turn around and polish. The rust was rendered from the surface, and a sliver of pride in his title—in his work—returned somewhat. He doubted it ever would recover fully, but at least he wasn’t so content in allowing himself to dwell in Jack’s shadow. 

Without Ana’s presence in the meetings now, without anyone to stand beside him and back him up, he finds himself slipping back into the past. Jack’s blue eyes pin him in place, scrutinizing and scouring him for weakness, for soft spots to strike and for cracks to cave in, and he can feel Morrison’s stranglehold choking him. After the second meeting, it stopped being about the mission failure, and instead shifted into an exercise in public humiliation. 

Fortunately, at the least, the council denied a vote to suspend Reyes outright, citing the global increase in terrorist activity requiring all hands on deck. There’d be a further investigation in the future, most likely, but he’s evidently made the cut for the time being. 

Of course he still had a use. Not only for the organization itself, but Morrison was bound to pull a 180 and vouch for his continued work. The public admonishment was only temporary, considering it’s ammunition for Jack should he play savior and proceed to hold it over Gabriel’s head until the next fuck up. 

Reyes knows he makes mistakes. He doesn’t claim to be anywhere near perfect, he can see when he’s stepped too far out of line, and he’s willing and able to take the consequences for his actions. He doesn’t understand why he’s obligated to repeat himself over and over, as though he were a child being punished by writing and rewriting an apology until the words dissolved into meaninglessness. Jack seems to want him to relive the battle repeatedly for his own amusement. 

Why won’t Jack just let him go? It’s been years; one would think he’d move on to another target, one more alluring and even more malleable than Reyes. He’s still trying to control him like they never broke it off in the first place. 

His head hurts—too much thinking while far too drunk. The muscles in his temples pound indignantly, as if they were already expecting to be relaxing by now instead of mulling trauma over to the point of exhaustion. His brow furrows. 

As he pulls away from his spot leaning against the wall, his fingers clumsily unclasp his chest plate and allow it to fall to the floor. Gabriel tumbles into bed carelessly, boots still on, and his awareness fades into nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter took so long! We have been brainstorming quite a bit about about the future of this fic and what it will focus on. Now that we've gotten through the initial chapters building up McCree's character and past as well as Reyes' character, we'll be getting deeper into other characters, specifically Angela, Ana, Morrison, and more canon-compliant characters with our own takes on them.
> 
> Update schedule should be once (or even twice!) every month as our schedules allow between college and work. Thank you for your patience! :-)
> 
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)   
>  [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)


	8. Cryoseism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He still hasn’t come to see you?” Ana asks softly. 
> 
> McCree gives no verbal response, shame burning high in his cheeks upon the realization that he’s unsure how long he’s been confined to his medical prison, and yet Reyes has offered no scrap of his presence—at least, not to his knowledge. He gives only an almost-imperceptible shake of his head. 
> 
> It’s been too long, far too long to be excusable in his vain efforts to hold together the mirage of his commander’s honorable name. It’s been wavering more as he becomes intimate with the dull upholstery in the room, the individual fibers of his sheets, and the voice of the outside world whispering to him through the cracks in the door. 
> 
> “Would you like to see him?”

Jesse isn’t so privileged as he has been in the past—the last few times he’s regained consciousness, the mere fact of his continued existence came as far too great a shock to fully comprehend the pain he was in. Now, rousing for the first time since the second surgery to excise the overabundance of scar tissue accruing around the original site of surgery (not a procedure with an abnormally high fatality rate), the dull roar of reality does no favors in numbing his pain. 

He feels absolutely destroyed. As though he was run through a mill, crushed and ground purely to extract any valuable components within him. In a less poetic sense, he feels as though he’s been hit by a truck. 

McCree isn’t even met with company upon his awakening. At least, not anyone or -thing tangible; all he’s got to keep him occupied are the beeps of his vitals being recorded by the computer and the threat of emotional breakdown ever-looming on the horizon. 

It is both a blessing and a curse. The constant company since his induction into the medical wing of Headquarters did nothing but stress him out further, but without the visitors to consume his time, his own catastrophizing and ruminating have free reign. 

Jesse clenches his jaw and fists the aggravating synthetic cotton bedding catching on the dry skin of his palms and fingertips. Purposefully avoiding thinking about something is as unreachable a goal as a dog chasing his own tail. If he’s not thinking about something, he’s thinking about  _ not  _ thinking about it. 

He stoops even to studying the dullest and least notable details of the room, down to the most minor imperfections in the drywall. Just a step above from actually watching paint dry. 

Regardless of the mental toll his actual injury managed to take, he’s never taken anaesthesia well. His sense of time is warped—with seconds seemingly spanning minutes, and hours lasting epochs—most notably. His vision occasionally deciding to swim as though he were deployed at sea doesn’t do him much good, either. 

In his nigh-scientific scrutiny of his room-turned-prison, he notes with distaste that the barren walls lack even a clock. The only indication of the time of day he has is the position of the sun in the sky. 

He dwells on the abnormal lack of a clock for a few beats before his gaze slips down to the door. It’s rather unassuming, leading out of the confines of his private room and into the wider infirmary corridor. He’s in Angela’s priority patient room. It’s undeniably distinct, given its direct link to Dr. Ziegler’s office. 

Usually it’s reserved for poor saps without much time left to live, having had it stolen by a particularly overzealous enemy. Maybe he was one of those poor saps upon first arrival, but now he doesn’t feel like much more than a carcass inhabiting a bed that could instead be getting put to use by someone with actual recovery potential. 

Even though his thoughts are dominated by bitterness and despair at his current form, a spark of warmth at Angela’s insistence on his closeness flickers in his chest. She’s thoroughly clinical when need be, but some scraps of her friendship still shine through when it matters. 

What truly eats at him now is his state of limbo. McCree’s been offered no treatment timeline, nor any negotiations for his discharge from the medical wing, and as such, he has no room to mentally brace for whatever is next for him. 

There has been talk of him being fitted for a prosthetic—obviously, lest they wouldn’t have opted for surgery over a swift dismissal from his position—but Jesse has a creeping feeling that it’ll do nothing but serve as an incessant reminder that he can never live up to his full potential anymore. Coupled with Reyes’ determined avoidance of him, it only seals the fact that he’ll be kept around only as consolation for his life-altering injury, and not for any assets he brings to the team. 

Stewing in his thoughts is punctured only by what minimal entertainment he can glean by dragging his eyes around the room. 

Notes hastily scrawled on neon and pastel sticky notes litter his bedside table, stained with rings of condensation from his own drinks and coffee dripped from the mugs of more excitable visitors (Lena).

A few proper cards join the ranks of notes, neatly propped up on their corners as to be visible without needing to reach for them. He’s able to pick out a few trite words of encouragement and expressions of affection—some more heartfelt than others. 

Jesse knows full well he can disregard the neat-yet-hurried writing of Morrison, as the bearer of the brunt of McCree’s contempt. As slippery as he is in person, his written word is even more twisted and obfuscated in meaning. The card is no more than a formality—“sorry for making you lose your arm, get well soon,” in effect. 

He supposes only now is the word of his survival getting out. With the sudden influx of messages, he can only assume his fellow agents and commanders alike could only assume him DOA until his recovery was announced. If he had to guess, to avoid lowering morale any further in the case of his decline in the infirmary. 

Ana’s affairs don’t typically intersect with Blackwatch, anyway, so he can’t blame her for refraining from sharing the news. And any other sources of information for the agency seemed to be pointedly avoiding him. 

Jesse clears his sore throat, a pitiful and slightly-disgusting noise. As he glances over them again, each time reading more intently, he finds it somewhat easier to smile in the face of the written adoration. 

A note, printed neatly on cream-colored stationery, stands out. The words are stark against the page, and although the message is short and sweet, Jesse finds himself a touch surprised at the attribution to Genji at the bottom. It’s more than he ever expected from the quiet man, given the craftsmanship tucked away into such a short sentiment and the few exchanges they shared. 

Another is addressed from Fletcher and Santiago jointly. Several other squadmates also contributed, along with a few miscellaneous captains and sergeants that he hasn’t expected to hear from. 

In the face of such overwhelming support, he still finds himself strangely saddened as he reads and re-reads the contents of Ana’s note-turned-letter, left within arm’s length of Jesse. 

It holds the expected well-wishes just as each of the other notes, but with more affection left between her word selection. Interwoven with what is plain on the paper, he can also grasp Ana’s sense of pride in his perseverance. Assurances of maternal love wrap snugly around his shoulders as a cloak, passed on to McCree in turns-of-phrase in her mother tongue. 

In some sentences, he’s left to context to decipher exactly the meanings of her writing, but it somehow enhances the meaningfulness. Love transcends language, or something as cheesy to that effect, he supposes. 

It closes with Ana’s affirmations that he hasn’t truly lost a part of himself. From anyone else, it would induce a blind rage—minimizing such a trauma would be an unforgivable insult—but he finds that, even as a baser and embarrassing part of his psyche tries to drum up anger, he can’t. Not at her. 

She means well. Ana has often held that she views the body as a mere vessel, housing the grander and more important being of oneself, and that mere physical damage is no real loss. 

It’s a bit beyond Jesse while he’s sober, and his cognitive function sluggish as it is now, all he can take from it is that she sees this as just another challenge for him to face, no more insurmountable than a bruise or broken bone. 

McCree can hear the encouragement in his head, can hear her say it, even, but he’s unable to fully accept the philosophy. He can hardly bear to glance down at the cleaved limb. It does nothing but rend his soul and cause a feral, listless desperation to rise to a broil. 

In the moment, all he can do is stifle a sniffle as he turns the letter over in his hands again. It’s best not to look at it now. 

He neatly folds the note against his lap, peres it over for any damage, and sets it flat on the cart. His veins grow hot as the sunny memory of Ana’s company overwhelms him. It’s a wild contrast from the cold, professional environment he finds himself stranded in. It burns, hot and fierce as any fire, before it sputters out into the ashes of Reyes’ glaring absence. 

With great effort, he can recall how Angela stuttered around the topic of his commander. She folded her hands, dry and cracked from constant application of sanitizer, and picked at her edges as her mind wrestled over how to gentle the ignition of Jesse’s very foundations. As if kinder delivery would lessen the flame’s destruction, or inhibit their climb up the length of Jesse’s body and the heat of its tongues in his throat. 

Gabriel denied the relief of cool water, heavy and powerful as a waterfall, to the burning man. Where McCree would have run to for solace and salvation, he’s deprived of the loving lap of patient tides or even the volatility of crushing waves—he’s utterly abandoned, no more significant than the humanoid smudge of soot in the aftermath of a nuclear warhead.

Angry tears wouldn’t be the best descriptor of his emotion; coming out of a coma without the support of the single person able to properly help left him more defeated than anything else. Isolated, maybe, though the gradual trickle of visitors made that hard to justify. 

It would be just his luck that this is the moment Angela decides to return from assessing a basic injury sustained by an agent during sparring. She’s perhaps a bit red in the cheeks, quick to return to Jesse upon hearing his heart rate pick up on the EKG.

She hurries to his side, her lips thin in worry for her patient. 

“Jesse, are you in pain?” she asks. She knows this isn’t just because he’s hurting physically—he didn’t even cry to this extent on-scene of his trauma. Her sudden presence seems to rip another dry, poorly-muffled sob from Jesse’s chest. She gives him an out that leaves him with a shred of dignity intact. 

“Leave me alone,” he snaps. 

Initially, the doctor hardens, her lips quirking down infinitesimally. A microexpression, but to Jesse, conditioned to remain hyper-aware of anyone else’s emotions at a given moment, it’s as blatant as a signal flare. 

_ You’ll have that soon enough,  _ is what McCree gleaned from the receipt of her expression, and he meets it with a glare. 

“Are you in any pain?” Angela repeats. 

His anger lingers for a moment, stubborn defiance taking over for a couple of moments until it fizzles out. She disarms him; her own insistent obstinacy in the face of brazen anger is so rare that he’s had no practice in countering it. 

The cowboy turns his head, shying away from eye contact. 

“A little,” he grunts. 

Angela nods. 

“That’s all I needed to hear. Would you like more medication to help you sleep?”

Jesse draws another tearful breath. He’s combatted his tears back down to his waterline, but they still threaten to spill over at the slightest provocation. 

A meek, “yes.”

Angela’s hackles fall completely with a gentle sigh. “I’ll be right back. Deep breaths, Jesse.”

It would be received as condescension from anyone other than a licensed medical professional, and probably anyone other than Angela at that. A miniscule nod, and Doctor Zeigler excuses herself to the pharmaceutical cooler. 

In the interim, she takes the moment of privacy to pull her hair from its too-tight ponytail, and instead tie it into a loose bun. She knows it’s not pain causing the tears. While she can’t put her finger on it, there’s a subtle difference—his is more akin to grief than a simple physical ache. 

Drugs could soothe a bone on the mend or the aftermath of a surgery, but did little to effectively treat psychological injury. At least, not any drugs she could justify treating him with. 

Returning with the fresh IV bag, she hesitates. 

“Would you like to talk about it, or do you want to be alone still?”

“Alone.”

“Alright,” she accepts. Her shoulders sag slightly, and the disappointment is palpable to Jesse, but he refrains from saying a word. “I’ll be in my office for another hour before doing rounds again. Let me know if anything changes.”

Nothing changes, but she didn’t expect it to. He’s not in a deep sleep as she would have thought as she enters the room to check on him one last time, and his eyes slide open easily. 

“Ana will be here shortly to keep you company. I told her you might be drowsy, so don’t feel pressured to stay awake.”

She doesn’t, for once, check his vitals, and it pleases McCree just so. Not enough to crack a smile, but encourages him to relax his expression. It’s a little different. 

Not being monitored constantly and not consistently dipping in and out of consciousness thanks to painkillers makes him feel a little less like he’s stagnating and rotting into the bed. He still feels useless, but less like a lost cause. 

“I’m going back to work. I’ll be up by dinner time, but don’t hesitate to call a nurse if you need something.”

The span of time between Angela’s absence and Ana’s arrival is torturous. The mounting anxiety of holding a proper conversation with Ana is almost worse than any water boarding simulations he had to undergo during his training as an agent. 

He’s no fool. They’ll get to talking about one thing or another, and they’ll inevitably come around to… something he’s been avoiding thinking about with purpose. 

Jesse’s so intent on thinking about  _ not _ thinking about it that he misses the gentle knock at the door announcing Ana’s arrival. No chance to feign sleep and avoid heavy discussion. 

Not that Ana would fall for it. 

“I’m here, Jesse,” she greets. 

Being pulled from his rumination so abruptly causes Jesse to flinch, and the vital monitors tattle on him for spooking. He glances sidelong at the computer screen, then shifts his focus to his guest. 

He settles back into the bed and echoes a muted response. 

“Is the surgery still bothering you, dear?” she asks as she takes up her post in the plastic-cushioned chair beside the bed. 

“No. She gave me pain meds and something to make me sleep before she left.”

“What could be bothering you, then?”

Plenty, she’s sure, but she’d rather allow Jesse to speak on his own terms. If he gets forced out of his comfort zone too abruptly, he clams up. Something she notes his commanders don’t seem to grasp. 

Jesse shrugs. He rolls his head over on the pillow. He’d be damned if he could say why, but her presence is a source of irritation for once, rather than one of unconditional comfort. 

Why couldn’t anyone else come to see him? Someone who cared  _ less _ about him—who’s only there to avoid a meeting or soothe their guilt or something. It’s disorienting to be cared about so fiercely, and at times more painful than not being cared about at all. 

McCree isn’t so obtuse as to think it’s not just something he tells himself. But allowing others to worm into the cracks of his armor has never served him well. Reyes is another piece of evidence in favor of that sentiment, and the one that stings the most. 

Then, Ana’s presence is more like antiseptic or stitches. Necessary, but painful. If he’s honest, she’s vital to his recovery. But God damn if it hurt. 

“Jesse,” she says, trying to get his attention. The vie for attention fails, and she straightens in her seat. “You’re not a good liar.”

He breathes through his nose in a deep sigh. He’s lied for years, to everyone he’s met about everything under the sun, and has gotten away with it thus far. It’s easy telling people what they want to hear and be done with it. Especially if it saves his hide or gets him something he wants in the long run. 

He recalls Reyes’ sentiment on the matter—over the context of inflated egos and overzealous confidence. They spoke over a few beers, enjoying the other’s company in the aftermath of a taxing mission. According to Gabriel, lies only prop up falsehoods for so long; eventually they crumble and erode the foundations of others’ confidence in the individual. Spoken from experience, given the lacquer of regret in the Commander’s dark eyes. 

In the moment, Jesse could only reign his attention in so much. It was when his mind first began wandering from the attention of women and idly fantasized about the same sex, and he was focused more on the bottle at Reyes’ lips than any sage advice. 

He screws his eyes shut tight to shutter the mental image out. He’s so insistent on purging any memory of Gabriel out that he can, the sheer force of his denial makes his jaw twinge uncomfortably. 

He’ll lie until the day he’s dead. 

“I wasn’t lying. It doesn’t matter.”

“Jesse. You can’t just ignore this,” she says. Ana scolds only the way a mother can—maybe a touch condescending, but not so much that it is unearned. 

“Why can’t I?” He raises his voice just so, whirling his head around to face her again. It makes his vision spin with inertia. “Everyone else just ignores ‘em. Sitting around here and crying about it does no good.”

“Maybe that was true once,” she speaks slowly, “but not anymore.”

Admittedly, it’s a bluff. She’s next to no idea what happened to Jesse before he’d fallen into gang involvement. Her information about his tenure as co-leader is spotty as-is, but she’s been given scraps of information as they’ve grown closer. 

She doesn’t need to know exactly what he holds in his past to know that he’s holding on to something he ought let go of. Ana can recognize when the well is poisoned by something sitting stagnant in the water and rotting. It diffuses and sours every last drop. 

The magnitude of the decay in the trenches of Jesse’s psyche are beyond her imagination—and even so, that isn’t her purpose in being there. She can only infer off of what he’s offered, and cannot assume more than what she knows for fact. Assumptions can be equally as dangerous as the truth for some. And, heavens how the truth seems to wound Jesse. 

The boy’s bluster and bravado which tended to come crashing down upon the realization that his logic holds the smallest of fallacies proves it. He’s not prepared for ‘real life.’

Leaning back in her seat, Ana squares him with a look. He opens his mouth to retaliate, but he cuts him short. 

“Reyes hasn’t come to see you yet.”

“What do you think?” he spits. Jesse moves to mirror her, to cross his arms, but the reality hits and he stops with an exasperated sigh. He falls back to sink into his bed, and his head hits the headboard with a crack. He swallows it and pretends it's not some of the worst pain he’s experienced since his induction into the medical wing. 

“I’d like to think him a better man than that,” she replies. 

It’s as though a switch is flipped; the anger that had just been plaguing him dissolves into sorrow like candy floss in water. His hand clutches the scratchy blankets over his lap, and he sucks in a breath. 

“Don’t blame him,” he starts. Jesse turns his bitter gaze down at his remaining limb, rather than setting it upon Ana. “What use am I know? For— for fuck’s sake, I lost the arm I shot with.”

For all his grief, he’s still hesitant to swear in front of her. 

“You’re more than your marksmanship—”

“Like  _ hell _ I am. You just ain’t been in the field with me. It’s all I got to my name. I— I  _ used  _ to be the best shot around. That was  _ my thing _ .”

Ana frowned, but didn’t interrupt him as his words built intensity or as he gestured to the empty room around them. 

“I’m nothing if I can’t shoot! And—and she fucking  _ knew _ that—”

“Jesse.”

“I read the reports! I— I— read.” He heaves in a sharp breath, near foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. 

Ana’s comfort falls on deaf ears; his eyes had already glazed with anger again as he lashes out blindly like a cornered animal. 

Her fists clench in her lap. The moment he mentioned getting ahold of the raw reports, she knew where this was headed. Even though she tends to avoid involvement in Gabriel’s affairs, it was stressed above all else that McCree wasn’t to get ahold of the uncensored reports, lest it wound his psyche even further. 

As much as it was stressed to Angela, it must not have stuck, given how apathetically she’s handled Jesse’s emotions. At least as far as Ana could tell. 

“All those people died, and for what? Because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time? And what use am I? All I am is a fuckin’ burden, and Reyes knows that! Else he’d be here— all I am is a goddamned fuck up, and I should have died in those tunnels—”

“ _ Jesse _ !” Ana’s fists slam down on her thighs in unadulterated frustration. They share an intense moment, each of them with tears in their waterlines. The miniscule shake of her head, and Jesse’s jaw clicks shut. 

Even through the emotion preventing him from clarity, he can tell he’s gone too far. They turn away from each other. Ana wipes the tears from her eyes, silent as she regains her composure, while Jesse is more apt to let them roll hotly down his cheeks. 

“You are more than your capacity to kill,” Ana breaks the silence after a long moment, her voice wavering just so with too-heavy emotion, “and you are more than what has tried to kill you.”

Though receiving no verbal response, Jesse sinks into his bedding with a whole-body sigh. It was a burst of emotion from Jesse the likes unseen by her before now, so Ana cannot fault him for being unable to speak immediately 

She scoots her chair forward, the furniture creaking in protest with the movement, and rests her hand on Jesse’s. It was warm and rough-textured and jarring in comparison to his lack thereof, but it was still her Jesse. 

“You won’t believe me right now, and that is fine. But you are no burden, and you aren’t worth any less than you were before this happened.”

A little scoff, and a pause while the cowboy clearly takes some time to think. 

“Well... I am, on the black market.”

“I suppose,” she tuts. The older woman smacks his hand gently, and leans back to wipe the tears collecting and threatening to fall. “You oughtn’t joke about that.”

Jesse turns to look at her with the smallest of smiles brightening his otherwise tear-swollen and -stained face. Initially, it’s a small shock that Ana isn’t appalled by the dark humor, but it soon clicks. 

She’s undergone great losses of her own, and has worked alongside countless individuals in various stages of working through their own grief. There’s almost nothing as common as people turning to humor in order to normalize their new normals, especially in their line of work. 

They sit like that, quiet and contemplative for a while, until Ana speaks up again. As much as she wishes they could simply reside in the quiet and somewhat-improved mood, ignoring the issue would only put off the necessary conversation. 

“We need to talk about Reyes.”

In an instant, he seems to recoil at the mere mention of Gabriel’s name. Their fifteen minutes or so of companionship may as well not have happened, given the way he immediately closes himself off. 

She scowls at first, then the expression smooths over in relief when the younger doesn’t immediately leap into his rhetoric of denial and ignorance. At least not immediately; she still holds off some hope. 

“He still hasn’t come to see you?” she asks softly, leaning forward with her elbows on the bed. There’s no air of mocking, nor does Jesse interpret it as such. Her intentions are pure. 

Jesse gives no verbal response, shame burning high in his cheeks upon the realization that he’s unsure how long he’s been confined to his medical prison, and yet Reyes has offered no scrap of his presence—at least, not to his knowledge. He gives only an almost-imperceptible shake of his head. 

It’s been too long, far too long to be excusable in his vain efforts to hold together the mirage of his commander’s honorable name. It’s been wavering more as he becomes intimate with the dull upholstery in the room, the individual fibers of his sheets, and the voice of the outside world whispering to him through the cracks in the door. 

The amputation, an “elbow disarticulation” as Angela said, would have only taken three to four weeks to be deemed “healed.” The scar, the good doctor explained, would venture into a year and a half of elongated recovery, perhaps longer. Due to the elective surgery to go in and excise the excess scar tissue building around the inoperative joint, the recovery was extended just another week or so, but it was done to ensure that the best prosthesis options were available.

If it were just his arm, then it wouldn’t be as mind-numbingly frustrating. Shattered ribs take a month at least, and a punctured lung takes two with heavy restrictions attached to his release summary.

He had done the math time and time again, every single day. It’s been sixteen days since he woke from his coma, which spanned four days itself. It’s been twenty days since he landed in this prison cell and he’s been keeping a running tally of how many days left.

_ At least _ thirty-six days if things go off without a hitch and his body runs its course without complication. He was fortunate with the medicinal advancements he could reap the benefits of; nano technology that Angela herself had pioneered hurried the healing process of everything else, from the lacerations across his bicep and back to the respiratory illness that lay dormant in him. He’s not all too optimistic still, as knowing his luck, something will spring up out of nowhere the day before discharge.

Heaving a great sigh, following McCree’s hesitance as he sinks into his pillow, she finds his knee over the covers and envelopes it in her hand, running her thumb over his patella. It causes a great deal of tension to leave Jesse’s body, the ministration doing good to settle his hackles. Gentle contact can go a long way with those sorely lacking in real human connections, just as any beat mutt has the capacity of being a lap dog.

Never striking Ana as one to apply herself in a more tactile sense in the grand scheme of bedside manners, she doesn’t stiff Angela for not offering her hand in trying times, quite literally. She wasn’t all too good at being sympathetic in general, so the thought of her forcing herself to get one hug out feels foreign and wrong. Besides, she holds no qualms with doing it herself. Any excuse to hug and hold Jesse, she’ll take.

She won’t deny it, not even hesitate a heartbeat: McCree felt more like a son than anything else. Perhaps it’s because of his proximity to her own daughter and her mentorship over him as well, but the mother in her roars to life seeing him in any medium of distress.

Contemplating, she leaves him suspended in dread of what she could say. Ana knows that he’s had ample time to formulate and adjust his opinions about his commander, but she still doesn’t know where his heart truly lied. Reyes’ name was the catalyst of his aggression, self-deprecating outburst, but he didn’t appear to outwardly denounce the man.

Jesse watches her with uncertainty, praying that she doesn’t try to dig too deep lest the shovel strikes the loose casket lid. His skeletons aren’t ready to be aired out yet, still rancid and rotting and waiting to be put to rest. Before Captain Amari, he could only hope that she doesn’t see that he has gone against God and involved himself with his superior.

“Would you like to see him?” she asks gently, prying with intention. Eyes narrowing, he scrutinizes her features for the meaning of the odd lilt. Tentative, starting and stopping, he stamps his lips together in apprehension. 

“If… if he wants to see me,” Jesse mumbles, “like  _ this, _ then… I guess.” Rationalizing his own catastrophized thoughts, he reasons that Reyes wouldn’t want to look down at his failed protege anymore than Jesse wants to look up at his scorned commander. That, and he risked Gabriel’s position as Blackwatch Commander in his effort to recover him. There must be some contention in his mouth when he speaks Jesse’s name for that offense. McCree would also find it hard to look at himself.

“No, I do not care if he wants to see you,” Ana asserts, “I asked if  _ you _ would like to see him.”

Blinking for a moment in surprise, Jesse stammers.

“Uh- I… I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you thinking? I’m sure you’ve had a lot of time to think, being trapped in here,” Ana glances about the room in faux disgust before looking to McCree again, placing a hand in front of her face to hide her lips from an imaginary audience, “you think it’d kill Angela to decorate?”

Smiling delicately at Amari, she returns the smile with warmth tenfold. She’s good at making things seem normal, as though they were just chit-chatting, discussing the weather or the most recent recruit’s performance. It made  _ him  _ feel normal, and he couldn’t appreciate it enough.

Even with the help of humor to smooth the slippery slide into a conversation of Jesse’s emotions, McCree still finds himself struggling to think. It's as though he has never had an emotion once in his life in this very instance of Ana asking him. Or rather, he’s never been tasked with appropriately describing what was pestering him, much like a neglected child. His emotional vocabulary was emaciated with lack of love in his life, leaving his mouth full of emotions but no vocal cords to utter them coherently.

Witnessing the struggle in McCree’s eyes, Ana attempts to bolster him.

“Right now, how do you feel about Reyes?” The scowl on McCree’s face is immediate, and Ana worries the fabric of her cardigan as she braces herself for an onslaught of anger. To her surprise, it didn’t come. Instead, a small voice greets her.

“Sad,” McCree says after a beat, still uncertain by the way he stretches out his consonants, “I- uh… I don’t know. Sad.”

“Why sad?”

“I feel like… like I hurt him,” McCree mumbles, casting a sidelong glance at the older woman as he braces for the expected barrage of dismissals and deflections. Instead, Ana looks at him expectantly and nods in understanding, silently encouraging him on. He has to wet his tongue before he can speak again. “because if I didn’t get nabbed then he wouldn’t have had to kill all them people. An’ I let him down.”

“You feel guilty because all those people died or…?” Ana attempts to clarify, lost from her perspective.

“No, no. well…” McCree says after a moment of hesitation, not quite able to amend the failure of comprehension, “I don’t know. I knew a lot of them, and jus’ because they were inna gang doesn’t mean they deserved to die, but… when someone shoots at you, you gotta shoot back.”

Ana nods sagely, leaning back and clasping her hands in her lap. “So you feel guilty because Reyes had to kill a lot of people to rescue you, for the fact that he had to kill, not for whom.”

“Y-es…” McCree says after a moment of contemplating, stretching out his consonants as he validates the speculation.

“And you said you feel guilty because you think that this incident was your own failure as a protege? Or--”

“Yeah,” McCree speaks quickly, going back to teasing the sheets in his hand.

“Jesse, I promise you that you have not failed as a protege. Not to me, and not to Reyes,” she says before suddenly taking on a faux serious look, “you best not forget that you too are my protege.”

Jesse huffs a laugh through his nose, but remains silent. At first, playing twenty questions was a welcome method of prying his thoughts and feelings out of him, almost like a guide to formatting his emotions. She can tell that he didn’t mind it so much until she began picking at exposed nerves. 

Out of habit, she flips her wrist over and glances at her watch. The screen pops to life and to her surprise, she’s spent twice the amount of time than she expected to with McCree and has made herself late to a preliminary meeting. Without expressing her urgency to leave, not wanting to fray McCree’s nerves with sudden isolation again, she settles her hands back in her lap.

She waits until McCree looks at her again, not wanting to force eye contact.

“Do you want to see Reyes?”

McCree blinks and swallows thickly, not sure where his tongue goes when Reyes’ name rings in his ears. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the commander, edging towards remorseful as though  _ Gabrial _ had died, because to him, it was the death of something significant in his life. Surely, there was no way they could return to normalcy.

Breathing deeply, figuring that he can’t hide in the medical wing forever and that he’ll inevitably have to return to duty to leave for a home he doesn’t have. Best to rip it off like a bandaid.

“Yeah,” McCree says finally, “I do.”

“Alright, I’ll make it happen,” she says with a smile, “Hell or high water.” Standing stiffly, the plastic chair doing her body no favors, she steals a moment to stretch, anticipating a quick jog to make it to her meeting on time. McCree has returned to playing with the sheets, and Ana huffs a laugh. No matter what, he has to keep moving. She understands the restlessness.

“I will let you know when I talk to Reyes,” she says, leaning down to leave the quickest kiss on his forehead, sweeping his hair to the sides, “you take care of yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, beaming at her even in the face of his mounting anxiety at the prospect of meeting Reyes after such a strenuous break between them. That anxiety will only continue to rise through the evening as thoughts twist themselves into beasts and monsters of unimaginable despair. He finds it hard to eat when Angela provides him with her cooking.

* * *

The flask was empty long before the simulation computers were shut down and the doors were closed. He’s taken to carrying an extra flask with him after the first day of disappointment at turning an empty flask up. Not a day later and Reyes had burned through the second flask’s supply by the time his agents should be hitting dinner before team training.

He almost got caught. Fletcher had some burning question he must have an answer to, as always, and caught his foot in the door as the last agent shuffled out for dinner. It should’ve left Reyes alone with himself for thirty to forty minutes, dependent on if there ended up being a food fight per usual, before the room was teeming with recruits again.

Fletcher’s voice nearly scares him out of his skin, as he had been pushing his sweatshirt up just enough to get a hold of a flask situated in his belt. It seemed as though the young captain hadn’t noticed anything particular, as he readily apologized for the visible shock he gave Reyes for his intrusion, and quickly stated his purpose.

Whatever the question had been, for Reyes couldn’t care to remember, was answered sufficient enough. Leaving Reyes to his own devices for the next however-long, he used his time wisely: he slipped to his quarters to resaturate himself accordingly.

So preoccupied to get his fill before the agents returned from dinner, Reyes forgot to properly secure the simulation rooms as he left towards the right wing of the facility. Given the guise of it being occupied by the commander, that is exactly what Ana thought when she approached the training room from the west wing to have a word with him.

“Reyes,” she calls as she steps into the large gymnasium, only to stop in her tracks. Typically, the man would be reviewing footage of select agents to critique their performance during the free time, but she could’ve sworn she just saw the last second of him leaving the other way from across the gym. Nowhere else to be seen, even from outside the computer office of the simulation gym, she hums in confusion and starts off after him.

He’s a man of routine and protocol, especially when there is reason for protocol. He is the last person to want another incident that instated the rule of locking the gymnasium doors while vacant. To entirely abandon his daily tradition is suspicious. That, and she has no reason to believe that he was actively avoiding her, although it has been a while since they talked, him being in and out of meetings and Ana herself being busy.

She keeps the door from catching on the latch to prevent the sound from echoing, allowing her to watch him without alarming him with the door opening again. He was trudging, if anything, with his head stooped as though he were exhausted by 5P.M. He rounds the corner with a hand coming out to support the wide movement.

He’s acting unlike himself. Her nose crinkles, and she bends down and hastily removes her boots. The east wing was entirely for confidential storage, command rooms, and superior officer housing. Standard class agents were not permitted without a superior with them to be in this wing of the building at all. For her to walk around in only socks would be seen as an attempt at relieving sore heels and not a method in stealth.

Clenching the boots in her hand and stepping on the balls of her feet and rather her heels, she slinks after the commander, realizing quickly that she needn’t worry about any wayward glances or odd stops. He was dead set on making his way to his quarters to do whatever he wanted to do, and her stomach turned as she thought with a certainty what that may be.

They meet no other soul in the hallways, not even each other, even as Ana stays just ten feet behind him.

He stops in front of his biometric pad for an oddly long second, as though he had forgotten how to use it. Then he falters when his door opens, like he was unsure if he wanted to enter his own quarters. Her suspicions solidifying with each tell, she makes the decision in her mind to breach the privacy of a superior officer, if only for her own benefit to confirm her thoughts right or wrong. 

It was clear that whatever was wrong was going to take priority over his visitation status with Jesse, as he wasn’t going to be seeing the young man any time soon if he'd fall over standing still.

Her foot stops the door from sliding shut at the last second, and she pushes her way into the room just as Reyes found himself in front of his liquor cabinet, oddly well-stocked for a man that seldom drank.

Observing briefly, she catches a flask-- no, two-- appear from his belt. A sudden surge of anger, almost indignation, powers her forward as she fully steps into the other man’s space.

“Reyes-” she snaps, garnering a delayed jump from the veteran soldier, “what are you doing?” The intrusion isn’t received well, as Reyes turns around with anger in his eyes as well.

“What are  _ you  _ doing, Ana Amari?”

Ana does a visible doubletake at the tone of his voice, sharp and heavy. The invasion of privacy was not being taken lightly, nor the fact that he was caught in the act. Rebounding, she assumes an accusatory stance, mimicking his own.

“I saw-”

“Shadowing a superior officer, invasion of-”

“I wasn’t--”

Their voices start to rise against each other as they battle for leverage. They trade back and forth, speaking but not hearing. Trying desperately to mediate at first, Ana starts to lose her temper as the commander sought only to deflect any fault.

“For all I know, you’re trying to-”

“You’re  _ drinking- _ ”

Reyes had forgotten the flasks, out in the open and in his hand. He hides them.

“I could get your medals removed!” he bellows.

They stare at each other intensely, motionlessly. Reyes was flushed red in the face from his outburst, visually sobering up as the reality of what he just threatened, and to whom, hit him in the face.

Ana, flushed as well but with emotion, doesn’t lose her sharp edge. She watches him through narrowed eyes. 

“You sound like Jack.”

“Don’t,” Reyes croaks, setting the flasks down on top of the minifridge of alcohol. Shutting the door to it, he leans back against the doorframe to the personal bathroom. Crossing one arm across his chest, hugging himself tightly, he scrubs his eyes with his other. 

He does, so much so that he can hear the echo of his words in Morrison’s voice. It makes him abruptly nauseous, although nothing comes up, miraculously. Just a sour taste, coating his mouth and turning his stomach over, but that just may be his conscience.

And of all people he could throw his weight around with, it was one of his longest standing friends. Ana has been there for him since the get-go, almost since S.E.P. brought this mess of an organization together. He owes her the most out of anybody for setting and keeping him straight in dire straits. Through thick and thin, she’s offered unconditional support in the voice of reason and constructive criticism.

He ought to listen closer.

When he opens his eyes again, Ana is right in front of him. She looks furthest from happy, much like a scorned mother, with her arms crossed across her chest and her mouth set in a firm line. It’s not surprising, and he doesn’t startle at her newfound position in front of him.

Lowering his hand to grab his elbow loosely, watching her closely, he elects not to speak.

Ana doesn’t waste the opportunity to land a stinging slap right across his cheek, heavy-handed and practiced. It’s hard enough that his head jerks and his vision swims tenfold. Straightening himself back up, he merely sniffles and rubs at his cheek like a disciplined child.

“I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did.”

They’re quiet as Ana softens, having soothed her own injustices. Now, she fixates on the mess of a man in front of her, the reek of alcohol clinging to him, and the evident maltreatment of his own living space. Typically an uptight and tidy man, the fact that he had left his bottles of liquor laying out on the counter and didn’t make his bed when he rose this morning was troubling.

Not to mention the outburst, the snap that sent her back years and years. She hasn’t been snapped at by anyone in almost a decade, the last likely being Morrison before the public turned their eye on him and he had to put on his goody-two-shoes act for the cameras. It wasn’t uncommon then for superiors to be at each other’s throats, trying to wage who is better at leading the world towards a better place, or whatever they lorded over each other. For many, it was just a bid at who was simply better, plain and simple.

Reyes wasn’t immune to such an insidious mindset. It fueled the fire between Morrison and him, and eventually licked up everyone else's' spines until sure enough, everyone was heated and fired up about something or another, day in and day out. Ana kept her head down during those times, caring for her daughter and trying to sculpt a global organization, at the cost of being a verbal punching bag for many.

He was never that bad. Most of his temper never left the bedroom, and what he did was generally a defensive tactic to ward off any doubt or criticism of himself and his leadership. Being solidified as commander made him lose the edge, as well as his fallout with Morrison.

“What happened to you?” she says, bitter and upset for him. He can only shake his head, eyes finding the alcohol bottles on their own, trying their best to look anywhere but Ana.

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

Casting a sidelong glance at her and sighing with a roll of his eyes, he still revels at how headstrong she is after all these years. Her wheedling has only gotten better, and he has no doubt that Fareeha certainly helped her perfect that art.

“I…” he starts, then swallows heavily, “can we sit?”

“Yes,” she says through a sigh.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen island, cluttered with documents that have escaped his desk, intermingled with bottles of vodka and dirty glasses. Taking a moment, she stacks the glasses and sets them aside with the bottles in a neat line, before tidying all the documents and setting the straightened pile between them. Reyes watches somberly, knowing the display is only meant to amplify how far he’s let himself fall.

“What are you thinking?” she starts, hands clasped before her. Reyes crumples a bit, braced on his arms as he leans into the marble top. 

“That I’m a colossal fuck-up, right now.”

“Aside from the obvious.”

Reyes shoots her a miserable look and scoffs, rubbing at his eye. He shrugs. Ana already decides that he is going to be more petulant than McCree, and that’s a tough one to beat. At least she knows that with Reyes, she doesn’t need to be as coddling and gentle as she does McCree, in part because Reyes is a large source of McCree’s ongoing suffering.

“McCree needs you.”

“No, he doesn’t.” By the look on his face, how his eyes squeeze shut and his eyebrows pinch in frustration, and by the hush of his voice, Amari can see that this is not where Reyes wanted the conversation but where he knew it’d end up. He’s bracing against it.

She wants to hit hard, break down the arbitrary defenses that he’s set up before he can use the excuse of needing to return to his agents to wriggle away.

“McCree thinks he failed you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well, he needs to hear that from you.”

“He’s smart,” Reyes mutters, “he’ll figure that out.”

Ana feels her eye twitch.

“He thinks he’s better off dead.”

It gets the garnered effect of drawing Reyes’ attention back to her, but he stays silent. The words felt like a hand of barbed wire grabbing his heart and squeezing, squeezing so hard he stops breathing for a second. 

He compartmentalized every single facet of McCree, from the infinite expanse of emotions the young man could be feeling to the inevitability that they’ll have to interact and meet face to face at some point. Hearing the deeper end of extremes that he’s imagined McCree could be feeling, stuck in the infirmary, makes his mouth run dry. His fingers twitch where they’re loosely curled around each other, aching to hold a bottle or flask, something to wet his tongue again.

Reyes looks away again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re a coward, Gabriel,” she spits, but it doesn’t burn as intensely as she would’ve thought. If anything, it laves over the wound on his heart where he already knows the truth of his actions (or lack thereof). 

Perhaps it’s the alcohol clouding his own internal filters, but he feels his cheeks flush at the sound of his name spilling from her lips, the way her accent wraps around the vowels and warps them into something more regal than he could ever be. Downright miserable and looking hangdog, he heaves in a great sigh and fixes her with a heavy look.

“You wanna know?” he hisses, his own limit quickly being reached. Ana doesn’t even have a chance to accept or deny the question before he starts to spill his guts onto the table. “I--” he stops and takes on an agitated look; it’s not at her, but himself. Whatever lay on his mind has clearly been burning him longer than he can handle, as though he has been holding a candle lit at both ends, and he’s finally folding his hand in. He fixes his sharpened gaze at the marble top, bracing himself for what may come next once he’s done.

“McCree came onto me, first night in the desert.”

Ana doesn’t move, watching him intently. He can feel her gaze boring into him.

“I…” Reyes swallows, almost chokes, “He kissed me when I caught him outside smoking in the middle of the night, then said he… he wasn’t a faggot.” Wincing just so, Ana scowls. She tastes the wind and knows the direction that this is headed, but doesn’t dare interrupt. 

“I told him that I shouldn’t, but then… I fucking told him I wasn’t gonna stop him,” he bites out, voice laden with emotions. Regret, frustration, and sorrow the predominant feelings Ana can readily feel out. “I’m fucking stupid. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut because- I-- god  _ damn  _ it.”

Standing abruptly, he whips around and heads straight towards the alcohol stash. To both of their surprise, Ana stays rooted to the chair, simply watching him not pour a glass, but grab a bottle. His practiced fingers uncap it easily, and she averts her gaze out of frustration when he doesn’t stop past a few swallows. When he returns to his place at the island, half the bottle is gone.

“I didn’t stop him,” he mutters after a pregnant pause passes between them. Reyes takes a deep breath to steady himself, “I didn’t because… I’ve had feelings for McCree for longer than I should have.”

Shaking his head at himself, he tips the bottle back, draining half of the half left. At this point, Ana is too worried that interjecting would cause Reyes to clam up again, so invested in pulling out everything that she can that she was entirely willing to pour him his own drink at that moment. Stilling as best as he could, nearing a dangerous level of intoxicity, there lies a brief concern that he’d be overstepping McCree’s boundaries and breaching his privacy by divulging what he told Reyes that night. However, the alcohol in his system cast the doubt aside and plowed onwards. 

“Kid told me that his dad almost killed him over liking boys, and I told him that I had a hard time coming around to accepting myself. Not as hard as him, he’s… he’s fucked up.”

“Oh, Jesse,” Ana mumbles woefully, her hand coming to cover her mouth. Reyes nods absently, swirling the liquid at the bottom of the bottle.

“Yeah, he…” Suddenly, Reyes finds it hard to see as tears prickle his waterline with a vengeance. Relinquishing his grip on the vodka, he scrubs at his eyes to alleviate the tingling of hot tears. “He said he wanted to be like me,” he mutters through a shaking breath. The gravity of the statement hadn’t lost its weight, if anything it only got heavier on his consciousness.

Sighing herself, she tries to reign her emotions in, not wanting to overshadow Reyes’ with her own. That, and she knew there was more to it than just a one-off event.

“What else?”

“I don’t know, I- I--” Reyes pauses and glances up at the ceiling, trying to stop more tears from falling to no avail, “we kept… arguing about where the gang might’ve been, I-- god, I was so fucking stupid.”

“Why?” Ana presses, not letting Gabriel lose steam for a second, not even to steal a drink. Her injection makes him completely bypass the impulse to take a drink in the empty second between words.

“I didn’t believe him- I couldn’t believe they were right under our noses and then they took him and-- Ana, I couldn’t control myself.” His voice was so laden with remorse that she straightens in disbelief, taken aback with the scope of guilt that Reyes felt. Uttered brokenly, he leans across the table as though he were pleading for forgiveness.

“Reyes…”

“I killed all those people, Ana.”

“You didn’t have a choice Gabriel.”

“McCree almost died-- O-Oberon  _ did  _ die- because of  _ me _ .”

She watches powerlessly as Reyes no longer tries to hold in his tears, letting them flow freely now. Reeling from the sheer magnitude of emotional information she had received, she finds herself rooted in place longer than she’s proud of. 

Thus far, she’s gathered that McCree believes that he has failed Reyes, but Reyes also believes that he failed McCree. Similarly, they both like each other, but there are things in the way on both sides of pursuing the relationship. It puts her between a rock and a hard place, stuck between wanting to get Reyes to buck up and get over himself if only for McCree’s mental health, and wanting McCree to understand his mutual influence on one of her longest-standing friends, how he has slowly broken the man down in ways she’s never seen before.

“Gabriel,” she starts, reaching across the space to place a hand on his shoulder, “hey,  _ majnun.”  _ The old nickname she gave him well over two decades ago pulls a weak little chuckle from him, and she smiles softly. He allows her touch within reason, rightfully defensive against anything affectionate or intimate in any aspect. Standing, she comes up beside him and rubs his biceps. “Why don’t we sit on the bed?”

Reyes nods woefully, and she helps him across his room. She takes a deep breath when she realizes that Reyes left his drink at the countertop.

“I don’t know what to do, Ana.”

“It’s okay to not know sometimes,” she says sweetly, easing him to settle on the edge without slipping off, “even for a commander.” He simply shrugs at that, as though acknowledging that she’s right, but not if applied to him. Watching his profile for a moment, how his tears dry to his cheeks and how his nose is flushed from his crying and unfettered drinking, she thinks about the ways she ought to go about this. It won’t be easy changing his mind, by any stretch of the imagination.

Reyes makes the decision a little easier.

“How’s Jesse?”

His voice is painfully hoarse, broken and tender. She simpers and rests her hand on his shoulder, thumb stroking through the fabric.

“He’s going through a really rough time,  _ majnun. _ He’s… lost,” she speaks tentatively, trying her best to not overstep and to simply regurgitate what McCree told her, “he seems mostly upset about losing his dominant hand over everything, but he’s also very upset over you.”

That makes Reyes scowl, and he looks at his hands, fiddling with his thumbs in his lap. He nods understandingly, quietly, and sniffles.

“Jesse needs to see you. It is eating him up to sit there,” she states with urgency, “if not for him, then do it for yourself Gabriel. It is killing you both.” She watches the heavy swallow travel down Reyes’ throat as he ponders her pleas, folding his hands over themselves again and again before he sighs.

“Kid can’t see me like this.”

“No shit.”

Reyes looks at her in mild surprise. She doesn’t like to swear, not since becoming a mother. Ana returns the look with a face of bemusement. 

“It’s going to be hard, but if you want to keep your job  _ and  _ if you want to keep Jesse, then the booze has got to go.”

“Knew you were going to say that.”

They share a tired, yet relieved look. For Reyes, it’s because he knows he truly has someone in his corner, even when all guns are pointed at him and he’s not even fighting them anymore. For Ana, it’s because she’s gotten the ornery commander to listen to her for more than five minutes and, most astonishingly, for his own good. It would never be a struggle for one of his agent’s wellbeing, but he always had hangups about doing anything for himself.

Simply sitting in companionable silence for a long while, long enough to where Reyes himself even glances at the time here and there, they simply simmer on stirred emotions. It won’t be an easy road by any means, and that makes Ana even more determined to see her commitments through. For Reyes and for McCree.

“Get some rest, Gabriel,” Ana says smoothly, rising to her feet while simultaneously pushing Reyes down to lie flat. He shoots her a perplexed look, but goes willingly, even as his vision starts to swim viciously. At least sitting up, he could sway with the waves.

“I’ve got--” 

“No, you don’t.  _ I  _ do now.”

Stunned for a moment, Reyes cracks a smile at her ballsiness. He didn’t expect anything less from her the moment they confronted each other. Shutting his eyes and throwing an arm over them, willing himself to stop being nauseous, he sighs. It takes a load off his shoulders, knowing that Ana was assuming control of his units for the rest of their training tonight. He doesn't think he'll be much help with anything, falling on his ass drunk and emotional.

“And I guess you’re taking the liquor with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sliding his arm up, he shoots her a half-baked glare. He knows it’s for the betterment of their situations-- that, and he doesn’t have it in him to fight her anymore. Last he glanced at the clock, dinner was going on for another ten minutes, and during that time, he can hear trashbags rustling, water running, and glasses clinking against the sink basin.

He feels her swat his knee just as he was just getting to the edges of sleep. She holds a glass of water in one hand, grasped with a cupped hand. Presenting the beverage to him, she sets it on his nightstand before dropping several pills next to the glass.

“Tomorrow will suck,” she states uselessly.

“I know.” Ana can hear him roll his eyes at her from beneath his arm.

He can feel her worn hands pet his hair off his forehead, scratching at his scalp for a moment before pulling away. Sighing through his nose, he looks just in time to see her disappear out the door carrying a trash bag laden with beer cans, liquor bottles, and trash. Letting his head drop back against his bed, he shuts his eyes and prays to whoever may be listening to have some mercy on his soul tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very long uploading gap, we apologize! our current schedules have us teaching ourselves, five college classes, three days a week and working the other four, so we haven't had much time nor energy to sit down and write for this fic.
> 
> at the moment, we are planning on taking a hiatus on this fic until we are able to sit down and focus on it for an extended period of time. not sure how long that will be, but we are not scrapping the fic!
> 
> i (lambmeat) have been writing under my pseudonym more, posting nsfw works as user/lambchops because they're shorter drabbles that i can focus on. if interested, let me know any suggestions you may have in that department!
> 
> [ cowboymeat's carrd ](https://cowboymeat.carrd.co/)   
>  [ lambmeat's carrd ](https://lambmeatss.carrd.co/)


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